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i 


EUNICE 


A NOVEL 

BY 

ISABEL C. CLARKE 



New York. Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’s MAGAZINE 

1919 


< 



Copyright, igig, by Benziger Brothers 





m 

• • 




©CI.A5362a7 


OCT 2u lOiS 


I 


5 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTSR 

I 

Roman Days 



PAGE 

7 

II 

Introduces the Parmeter Family . 


15 

III 

Eunice Goes Out to Tea 

, , 


29 

IV 

An Expedition 

. 


38 

V 

“How beautiful upon the mountains. , 


48 

VI 

Julian .... 

. 


55 

VII 

The First Confession 

, , 


63 

VIII 

Julian Writes a Letter . 

, 


71 

IX 

The Return to Brighton 

. 


79 

X 

Julian Overhears a Conversation . 


90 

XI 

A Momentous Decision 

, , 


ICX) 

XII 

The Coming of Eunice . 

• • 


107 

XIII 

Eunice Makes a Friend . 

• • 


114 

XIV 

Lady Eliot Interferes . 

• • 


123 

XV 

Enter Major Dampier . 

• • 


136 

XVI 

Father and Daughter . 

• • 


147 

XVII 

In London 

• • 


155 

XVIII 

Unhappy Days 

• 


162 

XIX 

A Holiday and Its Consequences . 


169 

XX 

A House of Cards . 

• • 


180 

XXI 

Consulting Mrs. Parmeter 



186 

XXII 

Gilfrid Eliot . 

• 


193 

XXIII 

The Storm Breaks . 

• • 


208 

XXIV 

Mysterious Changes 

• • 


219 


V 


VI 


CONTENTS 


chapter page 


XXV 

The Disappearance of Eunice 


230 

XXVI 

The Twins Return Home . 


242 

XXVII 

The Finding of Eunice . 


251 

XXVIII 

Darkening Shadows . • • 


261 

XXIX 

A Journey Abroad. • • • 


274 

XXX 

A Chance Meeting 


284 

XXXI 

Old Friends 


292 

XXXII 

Julian’s Dreams .... 


303 

XXXIII 

Eunice Consults Geoffrey 


312 

XXXIV 

Hard Sayings 


320 

XXXV 

A House-Party at Denscombe 


328 

XXXVI 

A Marriage is Arranged 


344 

XXXVII 

Julian Learns the Truth 


354 

XXXVIII 

Gilfrid Makes Conditions 


362 

XXXIX 

The Skeleton in the Cupboard 


373 

XL 

A Problem 


388 

XLI 

A Meeting 


396 

XLII 

Geoffrey Speaks His Mind . 


409 

XLIII 

Lady Mirton at Home . 


414 

XLIV 

Eunice Makes Her Choice . . 


422 

XLV 

Colonel Dampier’s Vineyard . 


428 

XLVI 

In Rome Again .... 


431 

XLVII 

“Because There is a Green Door” 


444 

XLVIII 

A Two-fold Duty .... 


451 

XLIX 

Julian Makes Plans 


460 

L 

With Burning Lamps 


466 


EUNICE 


CHAPTER I 

1\T RS. DAMPIER stood in front of the long, narrow 
mirror set into a panel of the painted ward- 
robe that occupied almost all of the wall space on 
one side of her hotel bedroom. The room was 
small and high up, and from the window, now 
darkened by green wooden shutters, could have been 
seen a wide view of the close-clustered roofs, towers, 
and domes of Rome lying under a brilliant April 
sky. 

The floor of red tiles was partially covered with 
some worn rugs. Several trunks standing open 
afforded glimpses of a disordered collection of per- 
sonal belongings. The labels on the trunks revealed 
the fact that their owner had recently made a voyage 
of some length, and from this it might be deduced 
that she was only a bird-of-passage in Rome. 

Mrs. Dampier was a pale woman of middle 
height, bigly made, but with that suggestion of 
emaciation which is often the result of long residence 
in tropical climates. She had very thick, fair hair 
and large, unquiet, grey eyes. The grey-green twi- 
light produced by the closed shutters was not be- 
coming to her. It showed too plainly the shadows 
under her eyes, the droop of her discontented mouth, 
the sharp little perpendicular lines between the 
brows. The mirror, which was an imperfect one, 
revealed these things to her now with a touch of 
grotesque and distorted exaggeration . . . She 
went impatiently to the window, flung back the 
persienneSy and looked out at the scene beyond. 

The first swifts of the year were wheeling about 
in that sky of incomparable blue. The beautiful 
7 


8 


EUNICE 


pale city gleamed tranquilly in the strong spring 
sunlight. There was a touch of sirocco in the air, 
making it soft with an almost unhealthy softness. 
Beyond the houses she could see the dark line of 
trees that marked the Passeggiata Margherita and 
the green swelling outline of Monte Mario spread- 
ing toward the north. Here and there in the streets 
and on the hills there were distinct patches of young 
bright green, the glimmer of newly-opened leaves. 

Mrs. Dampier shut the window again, for the sun 
was bright enough to make her eyes ache. She 
flung herself down on the sofa upholstered in red 
velvet, and closed her eyes. 

A little tap at the door and the handle was 
cautiously turned, and a light footstep came across 
the room. A child of about seven years old stood 
hesitatingly beside the sofa, finger on lip, in a watch- 
ful attitude. She wore a short-sleeved, low-necked 
muslin frock, a blue sash, and a string of coral beads 
that she had persuaded her mother to buy for her 
the day before at a shop in the Piazza di Spagna. 
Her legs were bare down to the short white socks, 
and were thin and rather brown. She was an attrac- 
tive-looking little creature with a mop of black gipsy 
curls, and she had strange dark eyes, darker even 
than those of the little Roman children. 

Mrs. Dampier opened her eyes and looked at her 
small daughter with a certain irritation. 

“Why are you not lying down? I told ayah to 
put you to bed. You ought to be asleep !” 

“I did try, but it’s too hot. And ayah’s snoring 
so.” She slurred over the r a little. 

“Well, you can’t stay here. You fidget me,” 
said Mrs. Dampier. 

“Where’s papa’s photo?” asked the child, going 
over to the dressing-table and apparently taking no 
notice of her mother’s speech. 


EUNICE 


9 


“I don’t know. On the table, I suppose. What 
do you want it for?” 

“I want to kiss it and say good-morning. He 
said I wasn’t to forget him.” 

“I can’t get up and look for it now, Eunice. If 
: isn’t there you can’t have it. Now run back to 
your room and tell ayah to give you your tea and 
take you back to the Pincio.” 

“I like the Borghese Gardens best,” said Eunice, 
moving the various toilet accessories with which the 
table was literally strewn with her small delicate 
fingers. 

“I don’t care which it is,” said Mrs. Dampier, 
closing her eyes. She did not want to get up and 
remove the child forcibly from the room, and yet 
she knew it was improbable that Eunice would go 
away unless some effort of the kind were made. 

“I like to look at the ducks on the lake. And 
there are lots of other children. But they all 
have English nurses — at least almost all the Eng- 
lish ones do. I’m the only one who’s got an ayah. 
There was a boy called Geoffrey yesterday who 
laughed at her.” 

“You can’t stay here. You are disturbing me,” 
said Mrs. Dampier. 

“Let me stay a little. Ayah’s always cross if I 
wake her. And I’ll be very quiet.” 

She sat down on one of the boxes near the win- 
dow, clasping her knee with her hand. She looked 
like a diminutive statue. For a few minutes 
there was silence in the room, and then she began 
to croon softly to herself, one of the monotonous 
melancholy coolie-songs of the East. A thin wail- 
ing trickle of sound filled the room. 

“If you’re not quiet this moment, Eunice, I shall 
get up and put you out of the room I” 

The sound ceased abruptly, but the child continued 


10 


EUNICE 


to sit there in the shadows, patient and watchful. 
There was something in her attitude of the indolent, 
concentrated patience of the peoples of the East 
among whom the short seven years of her life had 
been for the most part spent. She and her mother 
were on their way home for the first time since they 
had gone out to India when Eunice was a baby. 

Eunice was sharp and developed beyond her 
years. She had already shown signs of playing off 
one parent against the other, as precocious children 
will in a household that is slightly divided against 
itself. She preferred her father, who was uni- 
formly kind to her. Mrs. Dampier possessed an 
imperfectly governed temper, and her notions of 
discipline were summary and drastic. 

At the back of the drawer of the dressing-table 
Eunice finally discovered, after much adroitly-silent 
searching, the desired photograph of her father. It 
portrayed a typical English officer with a keen, thin 
face and steady, penetrating eyes. Eunice lifted it 
to her lips and whispered a greeting. Then she 
took a piece of soft paper, wrapped it up, and put 
it back in the drawer. Having done this, she quietly 
crossed the room and slipped out on to the darkened 
hotel landing with its rows of numbered doors on 
each side. At the farther end she opened another 
door brusquely; the sound aroused the ayah from 
her slumbers. 

“Mamma says I’m to have my tea. And then we 
are to go out — to the gardens where we went yes- 
terday.” 

The ayah arose and proceeded to light the spirit- 
lamp, over which she placed a small kettle of water. 
From a tin she produced biscuits. A little tray was 
put in readiness for Mrs. Dampier; for, although 
she generally had her tea elsewhere, she liked a cup 
before she went out. The ayah was a fat, good- 


EUNICE 


iti 


natured woman clad in volurmnons and brilliant 
draperies. She was a Tamil whom Mrs. Dampier 
had picked up in Colombo, and she was already de- 
voted to Eunice, whom she called Little Missy. 

This afternoon Eunice was impatient to go out. 
The hotel was a dull place; she had to stay all the 
time in one of the two bedrooms except when they 
went downstairs to the big dining-room for their 
meals. And, although there were other children 
ritting at some of the little square tables, she was not 
allowed to talk to any of them. Besides, they were 
for the most part Italian children, who would not 
understand her. 

Eunice dominated the ayah with a child’s instinc- 
tive tyranny. The moment tea was finished they 
went out and climbed the hill that separated them 
from the Borghese Gardens. The immense um- 
brella-pines waved their lustrous, mop-like heads 
against a sky of pure sapphire. The grass was a 
carpet of bright emerald. Here and there a Judas- 
tree flaunted purple boughs. A fountain flung up 
delicious crystal sprays. It was an enchanting 
world, to which the dark, spreading branches of the 
ilex-trees lent a shadowy mystery. Eunice, how- 
ever, bestowed scant attention upon the beauty of the 
scene, although with her childish love of rich color, 
she found the Judas-trees attractive. The Girar- 
dino del Lago was her objective — the place where so 
many children congregated, and where yesterday she 
had seen the little English boy, Geoffrey. 

Besides, the lake itself was an object of the most 
fascinating character. There was a temple at one 
end, and on the water there were ducks which per- 
formed interesting nautical exercises, as if for the 
sole purpose of amusing the children of many nations 
who assembled there. 

The sun-warmed air was full of delicate spring 


12 


EUNICE 


scents. Little groups of laughing, shouting children 
ran hither and thither under the great ilex-trees that 
formed a deep avenue of shade. Many curious eyes 
turned to look at the ayah as she waddled down the 
broad pale path with Eunice’s slight little figure 
skipping by her side. The stiff, white-clad English 
nurses mingled contempt with their astonishment, 
and murmurs of “Well, I neverj” “Such a sight!” 
were freely exchanged. 

Eunice soon distinguished Geoffrey sitting on a 
seat with another boy who was reading a book. 
They were both dressed alike in blue sailor suits. 
Their nurse — an elderly, formidable-looking person 
— was standing a little way off talking to a com- 
panion. 

Eunice approached without shyness. All her life 
she had been accustomed to people. She went up 
to Geoffrey and held out her hand. He slipped off 
his seat. The other boy glanced up quickly from his 
book. He looked at Eunice with dreamy dark eyes. 
Then he went on reading. 

“Come and look at the ducks,” Eunice said to 
Geoffrey. They went down the path together. 
Suddenly she gave a quick glance backward. 

“Who is that boy?” she said; “he wasn’t here 
yesterday.” 

Her crisp, clear little voice reached the ears of the 
boy who sat there reading. He too heard Geoffrey’s 
answer. 

“It’s my twin brother, Julian.” 

“Why doesn’t he come and play?” demanded 
Eunice. 

“He likes reading best,” said Geoffrey. 

“I want him to come. Ask him.” There was 
the imperious note in her voice that so often charac- 
terized it when she addressed the ayah. 

Julian did not wait to be asked. He shut up his 


EUNICE 


13 


book, slipped it into his pocket, and came toward 
them. He was taller than Geoffrey, and rather 
slender, with a pale face and dark brown eyes and 
hair. Geoffrey was plump and rosy, with yellow 
hair and big blue eyes; he was a very pretty boy, 
and his English fairness always attracted admiring 
attention in Rome. 

“Who is that wo^jian? Why does she wear those 
clothes?” asked Geoffrey, indicating the ayah, who 
was following them, by a slight gesture of his yellow 
head. 

“That’s my ayah. Mamma engaged her in Co- 
lombo because she said she couldn’t be bothered with 
me on board ship,” said Eunice. 

“Nurse said she wouldn’t speak to her for all the 
world,” said Geoffrey. 

“I’m sure ayah doesn’t want to be spoken to I” 
said Eunice, indignantly. 

“Why do you repeat what nurse says?” said 
Julian, speaking for the first time. “What can it 
matter? If they did speak they wouldn’t probably 
understand each other.” 

Now they were standing by the edge of the little 
lake. At the opposite end stood the temple em- 
bowered in brilliant spring verdure. An early but- 
terfly floated across the water looking like a de- 
tached white flower impelled by the breeze. There 
were little ripples on the surface of the water. The 
three children stood there for a few minutes in 
silence. 

“Are you going to live in Rome?” said Julian at 
last. 

Eunice shook her head. 

“We shall go to London next week. We’re stay- 
ing at the hotel. I don’t like it. I’m all day nearly 
in the bedroom. It’s dull. I liked India best.” 

“We have been here for two years,” said Julian; 


14 


EUNICE 


“we have an apartment. Perhaps you would be 
allowed to come to see us.” 

“And then nurse would have to speak to the 
ayah,” put in Geoffrey in an exultant tone. He had 
a youthful ambition to “score off” nurse whenever 
such a process was practicable. 

“We’ll ask mother when she comes. She said 
she would meet us here this afternoon,” said Julian. 

Geoffrey said: “How can mother ask her when 
we don’t even know her name ?” 

Julian looked at Eunice inquiringly. 

“It’s Eunice. Eunice Dampier.” 

“Have you got a father as well as a mother?” 
asked Geoffrey. 

“Yes, but he isn’t here. He stayed behind in 
India. That is because he is in the army and he 
couldn’t get leave.” 

“I’m going into the army when I’m big,” an- 
nounced Geoffrey. “Father says I may.” 

“Is he in the army too?” asked Eunice. 

Julian shook his head. 

“He’s a poet,” he said. “His name is Norman 
Parmeter. Haven’t you ever heard of him?” 

“No,” said Eunice, feeling terribly ashamed of her 
ignorance. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a poet. 
I don’t even quite know what it means.” 

“There’s mother I” said Geoffrey, darting away. 

Eunice’s first impression of Mrs. Parmeter was 
that she looked very young — almost like a girl. She 
was very pretty, with quantities of soft brown hair 
and laughing brown eyes. She wore a grey dress 
with a white fur that she had slipped slightly off her 
shoulders. She had on a broad-brimmed white hat 
trimmed with blue wings. She bent down and kissed 
Geoffrey, and Eunice heard her say, “Well, my 
cherub I” When she raised her head again she was 


EUNICE 


laughing, and she ran toward Julian and kissed him 
too. 

“And who’s your little friend?” she asked, touch- 
ing Eunice on the shoulder. 

“Tell her your name, please,” said Julian, who 
had a nervous fear of mispronouncing the unfamiliar 
words. 

“Eunice Dampier.” 

“Oh, I think I met your mother at tea yesterday. 
Wasn’t she at Mrs. Millward’s?” 

“She went out to tea,” said Eunice. 

“And she said she had just arrived from India?” 

“Yes, that was mamma,” said Eunice. 

“You must come to tea with my two boys,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter. “I’ll write to your mother.” 

“She says she’s never seen a poet,” put in Geoffrey. 

Mrs. Parmeter laughed. 


CHAPTER II 



HE Parmeters lived high up in an old Roman 


A palace, occupying the whole of the top floor. 
They had lived there for more than two years, al- 
ways promising themselves that when the twins 
should arrive at the age of nine they would return to 
England for purposes of education. That time was 
now rapidly approaching, and they were already 
talking of going back to their house in Brighton, 
which had been let during their long absence. 

Geoffrey had forgotten Brighton ; he seldom 
alluded to any events prior to their sojourn in Rome. 
With Julian it was different. He had a very accu- 
rate memory for past things, and often referred to 
them in a way which tantalized Geoffrey, who dis- 
liked these reminiscences. He had been to the same 


i6 


EUNICE 


place at the same time; his mind, he would indig- 
nantly affirm, was just as old as Julian’s, but he 
couldn’t remember either the pier or the aquarium, 
or going out for an hour or two in the little rocking 
steamer. It was all nonsense to say that Julian 
was so much cleverer. He could not read to him- 
self till at least six months later than Geoffrey; he 
was very stupid about the multiplication table — just 
try him with eight times seven I Perhaps he had 
invented all that part about the sea-lions and the 
octopus and the fish swimming about behind great 
glasses in what seemed to be green mysterious caves ! 
However, Mrs. Parmeter was able to assure Geof- 
frey that Julian had really remembered these details 
and had described them accurately. 

“Then why can’t I remember far back like 
Julian?” Geoffrey asked the question in an ag- 
grieved tone, as if the blame ought rightly to be 
attached to some one else. 

“Perhaps he’s got a better memory,” suggested 
Mrs. Parmeter. 

“Then why can’t he remember eight times seven? 
/ can remember!” 

“It’s a different kind of memory,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter, kissing his flushed, bewildered face. 

The twins were ve^ unlike, both in appearance 
and in character. Julian always managed to be the 
taller of the two— not very much, barely half an 
inch, yet enough to make the matter a bone of con- 
tention during the noisy nursery years. They had 
an English governess, who came to teach them every 
morning. She reported very favorably always 
about Geoffrey’s quickness; his marvelous progress, 
his rapid assimilation. Julian was slow and plod- 
ding. He liked reading, was seldom without a book 
in his hand, but he didn’t seem able to learn his 
lessons. 


EUNICE 


17 

They were the only two children. Once, it is true, 
there had been a person who was still sometimes 
cautiously, almost reverently, alluded to as Baby 
Sister. Even Geoffrey remembered the brief episode 
vaguely, but he had no recollection, as Julian had, 
of a cradle trimmed with pink ribbons and little pink 
cluster roses, and a mass of white, soft, fluffy things 
in the midst of which a tiny dark head was visible. 
When you approached the cradle, Julian had told 
him, mother or nurse would pull aside a white cover- 
ing so that you might “look at Baby.” Julian and 
Geoffrey had both continually wanted to look at 
Baby. There was a queer scent about her of violet- 
powder, and she was very soft to touch and had 
tiny crumpled-up hands. “Just the very image of 
Master Julian, ma’am,” nurse used to say, and Geof- 
frey would look jealously at his brother and lisp 
out: “Why isn’t she like me? I want her to be like 
me.” They would ask why she was like that — so 
small and soft, and sleeping nearly all the time, and 
awakening only to. cry. Why didn’t she get up and 
run about and talk, instead of indulging in that sense- 
less, purposeless weeping? They were told to wait. 
Next year, nurse would wisely prophesy, she might 
run about and try to say a few words. But there 
was, alas, no next year for Baby Sister. She had 
died when she was only two months old, when the 
twins were not quite six. Although Geoffrey had 
forgotten all about that time, Julian remembered it 
perfectly. He could never be induced, however, to 
relate any details of Baby Sister’s illness and death, 
and Geoffrey had long ago given up questioning him 
on those topics, which he felt might yield matter of 
surpassing interest. He did not believe that Julian’s 
silence was due to lack of memory. He would 
always grow angry in the end if you persisted in 
questioning him. 


i8 


EUNICE 


Julian indeed remembered it all with a curious 
distinctness. There had been puzzling things at the 
time, but then a great deal that concerned Baby 
Sister was immensely mysterious. He had always 
felt, however, that later on they would be capable of 
explanation. It was no use asking nurse to en- 
lighten him, for she had been the first to check any 
manifestation of curiosity on his part or on Geof- 
frey’s, and she had told them, “like good boys,” 
never to mention Baby Sister to Poor Mummy unless 
she mentioned her first. 

There was, however, one thing which Julian re- 
membered, and which he had never mentioned to 
any one; and therein lay the secret of his sudden 
wrath when Geoffrey questioned him. He always 
felt that if it were known, even after more than two 
years — since no Statute of Limitations absolves from 
punishment the sins of the nursery — some terrible 
but merited Nemesis would overtake him. He had 
been disobedient, and his disobedience, like that of 
his earliest forefathers, had resulted in the eating 
of , the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and it would 
be hard to say whether the sin or its result weighed 
the more heavily upon the smarting conscience of 
Julian. 

When Baby was first taken ill — with an illness 
that was alluded to in hushed voices as It — she was 
taken up, cradle and all, to a vast, unfamiliar cham- 
ber called the Spare Room, sometimes but very 
rarely inhabited by a Visitor who must never be 
Disturbed. Its windows looked straight out upon 
the English Channel and upon the crowds of people 
that moved perpetually up and down the Brighton 
front. Baby Sister shared this attribute peculiar to 
visitors, for after she had been carried up to the 
spare room the twins were told she must not be dis- 
turbed, and they never again had an opportunity of 


EUNICE 


19 


asking to “look at Baby.” Mother was always in 
the spare room, and you hardly ever saw her during 
those mysterious, unexplained days. She was with 
Baby, and she did not come into the nursery even to 
say good night to the twins. Geoffrey cried a little 
— he missed the comforting touch, the plans for 
to-morrow which she would whisper, and which al- 
ways sounded so delightful. Julian did not cry; he 
was too busy with his thoughts. 

He could still remember how perplexed his 
thoughts were at that time, continually spinning 
round questions that seemed to have no answers. 
The doctors, for instance. At first there had been 
one — the usual one who had come so often to see 
mother during that very mysterious period which 
had immediately followed the sudden appearance of 
Baby Sister, although she had continually assured the 
twins that she was perfectly well. When Baby 
Sister had been ill a few days two doctors came, and 
on one never-to-be-forgotten afternoon there were 
three. The third was an elderly man with piercing 
eyes, of whom Julian had felt afraid. He had met 
him on the stairs when he and Geoffrey were going 
out for their walk. Julian had hated the walks on 
those days, when so many strange, unusual things 
were going on in the house. He remembered the 
weather quite well, and the sound of a high wind 
would recall it to him to that day. It was in Novem- 
ber, and there was a high, blustering wind and a 
brown, ugly-looking sea with great waves all dark- 
ened and discolored with long snakes of seaweed. 
On that afternoon nurse had refused to go down to 
the sea ; she turned up Brunswick Square and walked 
along the Western Road as far as Ship Street. At 
every comer they saw an oblong-shaped space of 
dark sea and paler sky between the two rows of 
houses, and the wind blew up through it as if through 


20 


EUNICE 


an open window. Each time nurse would put up 
her hand to her bonnet and murmur something that 
sounded like being blown about. Julian did not pay 
much attention to nurse. She was a person who 
habitually grumbled, and the weather, of whatever 
quality, was seldom to her liking. He walked 
briskly along and never once stopped to look at any- 
thing attractive that was displayed in shop-windows 
because mother had begged him to be a very good 
boy. But his thoughts were full of the strangely 
silent, oddly changed house in Brunswick Terrace. 
It was more than a week since he had been allowed 
to look at Baby. She hardly ever cried now. He 
had overheard nurse whispering mysteriously to one 
of the maids about its being Something Catching. 
What the Something was he did not hear, but assur- 
edly it formed part of the unexplained happenings of 
the Spare Room. On the following day he and 
Geoffrey did not go for a walk at all, although the 
day was fine and there was no wind. They were 
left alone in the nursery and were given their paint- 
boxes with some old numbers of the Graphic to 
color. This was a pastime reserved as a rule for 
wet days. Julian could remember that hencefor- 
ward the amusement lost something of its savor; 
it was associated with that desolate time when no 
one came near them except to bring their meals. 
They wanted mother there to tell them which colors 
to use and to do a bit every now and then. She 
could mix such wonderful greens, and she knew how 
to make the brush into a sharp point that never 
strayed beyond the edge of the picture. Two sad 
little boys, gloomy and dejected and supremely 
puzzled, sat demurely, scarcely speaking, at the big 
nursery table. They were still painting when the 
door opened and mother came into the room. Her 


EUNICE 


21 


dark hair was roughened, she looked very tired and 
pale, there were tears in her eyes. 

“Darling Julian — darling Geoff,” she said. 

“Baby Sister — Her voice broke; she looked 

wildly round as if she had not the courage to go on. 
Then with a visible effort she added: “Dear little 
Baby Sister has gone to heaven.” 

She drew them close to her when she had taken 
a seat in the big arm-chair by the fire. They sat, 
both of them, on her knees, their arms around her. 
Sometimes she kissed them and a hot tear fell on 
their wondering little faces. Geoffrey cried a little ; 
he did not quite know why. Julian felt a strange 
lump in his throat. He wasn’t satisfied with being 
told that Baby Sister had gone to heaven; he wanted, 
achingly, to know much more. Most children ex- 
perience a passionate curiosity with regard to the 
mysteries of birth and death. Did it mean, for 
instance, he asked himself, that she wasn’t upstairs 
any more ? Had she floated out into the sky just as 
such a short time ago she must have floated into the 
house, escorted, perhaps, by shining angels? Was 
the pink-and- white cradle quite empty? If he pulled 
aside the flimsy veil would there be now no dark, 
fluffy little head against the diminutive pillow? 
These were some of the questions he desired to ask, 
but with a child’s intuitive delicacy in the presence 
of grief he did not utter them. Mother was evi- 
dently very unhappy, and he could never remember 
seeing her cry before. And, besides, she was very 
tired. They had not been sitting there long when 
the door opened, and Norman Parmeter stood 
hesitatingly on the threshold in the falling autumn 
dusk. 

“Come, Ivy darling,” he said gently. “I’m going 
to insist upon your lying down.” 

The children slid from her knees. Julian re- 


22 


EUNICE 


membered feeling half afraid to look at his father 
for fear of discovering that he too had been crying. 
But there were no signs of unusual emotion on his 
hard, finely-cut face. 

“Come, Ivy,*’ he said again; “those great boys 
will tire you.” Mrs. Parmeter rose and went 
toward him. 

“Oh, they never tire me,” she said. When she 
reached the door she turned and called the children 
to her as if to make amends to them for anything 
wounding in their father’s speech. She stooped 
down and kissed them, first Geoffrey and then Julian. 
That was always her way, although Julian was the 
elder. It was a long time before he realized that 
she put Geoffrey first because he wasn’t really first. 
He might be hurt, and Julian couldn’t be hurt — be- 
cause he knew. 

“And look here, boys, you’re to stay here.” Mr. 
Parmeter’s voice held its rare authoritative ring. 
“Nurse is very busy — she can’t be with you this 
evening. You’re not to go to the spare room. Do 
you understand?” 

“Yes, father,” they said in chorus, m obedient 
little treble voices. 

When Mr. Parmeter spoke in that sharp, incisive 
tone they never disobeyed him. Julian used to say 
he “had sparks in his eyes,” a danger-signal. But 
when their parents had both left the nursery — 
mother a little unwillingly, as they both in their 
hearts believed — the two boys stared at each other 
in silence. A sense of mysterious upheaval im- 
pressed them with a deep melancholy. Geoffrey 
was the first to speak. 

“Why mayn’t we go there, Ju ? Is she still there ?” 

Julian would have given worlds to know the 
answer to that question. He said evasively : 

“Mother said she’d gone to heaven.” 


EUNICE 


23 


“All of her?’’ persisted Geoffrey. 

“I s’pose so,” said Julian, unconvinced. 

“Did she have wings to fly? I’d love to have 
wings I” 

Julian shook his head. 

“If she’d had wings we should have seen them.” 

“They might have grown while she was ill. Per- 
haps that’s why we weren’t allowed to see her.” 

“Nurse said it was something catching. Wings 
aren’t catching,” said Julian. 

They were put to bed early that night. Nurse 
came up to perform this ceremony, and said she 
was “dog-tired.” She invited them to be good and 
as quick as possible. No loitering by the fire. Al- 
though she sniffed a little and her nose was rather 
red, she hadn’t that dreadful white look that had 
been on mother’s face ; to Julian she had even an air 
of secret enjoyment. She was full of importance, 
and seemed to emphasize purposely the mysterious 
quality of the activities upon which she was engaged. 
Julian and Geoffrey at that time slept in a room by 
themselves, and nurse in an adjoining apartment, 
with the communicating door left open. Geoffrey 
fell asleep quickly, but Julian remained awake far 
into the night. He heard nurse go quietly into her 
room, and after a short interval the light was 
switched off. There was a moon, and a slanting 
silver ray slipped through the clinks of the shutters 
and filled the room with a cold, bluish, unearthly 
light. It made Geoffrey’s little cot look very pallid. 
Julian sat up in bed, his heart beating. From the 
adjoining room he could hear the steady, rhythmic 
rise and fall of nurse’s snoring, and to-night he felt 
that there was something actually comforting and 
reassuring in the sound. It was familiar and com- 
monplace amid so much that was bewildering and 
confusing. About Baby Sister, for instance, Baby 


24 


EUNICE 


in heaven — Julian knew as much about religion as 
most ca re fully-b rough t-up Catholic children of six. 
He said his prayers night and morning; he recited 
grace both before and after meals, crossing himself 
with closed eyes. He went to Mass on Sundays, 
and sometimes to Benediction in the afternoon. But 
he was too young to associate the thought of death 
with the explanations of religion, beyond the fact 
that the dead went to heaven. An overpowering 
curiosity that was so keen as to resemble pain came 
over Julian. His brain had been stirred to an un- 
wonted, half-feverish activity by the happenings of 
the day. He found himself impelled by an almost 
overpowering force to go upstairs to the spare room 
and look at Baby Sister. If she wasn’t there, then 
Geoffrey was right perhaps about the wings. And 
if she was still lying there in the pink-and- white 
cradle it would show him that not all of her had gone 
to heaven. And in that case he would sec again the 
dear little dark head, the small puckered face, the 
tiny crumpled hands. A cold sweat accompanied 
by violent beating of the heart came over Julian as 
he thus deliberately contemplated disobeying his 
father. He felt certain of one thing — they had 
been forbidden to go into that room, not because 
Baby Sister had gone to heaven, but because she 
was still there. Baby was dead, had gone to heaven 
— he could take his mother’s word for that- — but all 
these strange terrifying events hadn’t removed her 
from her little bed. He slipped out of his cot. 
Geoffrey was sleeping the profound, noiseless slum- 
ber of healthy childhood. The door into the passage 
was ajar, and, although the one into nurse’s room 
was half open, he was sure that she would not hear 
the soft tread of his bare feet upon the floor. Julian 
stood shivering in the passage. Gas was burning low 
in a shaded lamp. It illuminated obscurely the long 


EUNICE 


25 


flight of steep stairs that led to the spare room on 
the next floor. It was a long journey for a nervous 
little boy of six to make alone, and Julian in looking 
back upon it had only a hazy impression of being 
pursued as in a dreadful nightmare. He reached 
the top of the stairs and paused on the square land- 
ing. The spare room door was shut. Would it be 
dark in there ? He might perhaps reach the switch 
and turn on the electric light. He opened the door 
very cautiously. The room was not dark. Two 
tall candles were burning, one on each side of the 
pink-and-white cradle that stood in the middle of the 
room. There was no fire, and the room was cur- 
iously, eerily cold. Julian was struck by something 
unnatural and penetrating in that chill feeling which 
seemed to touch him with frozen fingers. He went 
a little nearer. The whole adventure had become 
like a dream ; he could not believe that he was really 
here, actually here, and alone. It seemed to him, 
too, almost as if he had come against his will. Now 
he was standing by the cradle. The light from the 
candles made a checkered pattern on the flimsy cover- 
ing. Beneath the thin, soft sheet he discerned 
something that looked rigid, like a doll — a long, 
narrow doll. He lifted up a corner of it very care- 
fully. Yes, Baby Sister was still there, lying upon 
her back. Her hair was very dark against the 
pillow, as dark as his own. Her face had an odd, 
white look, and she was asleep. He put out his 
hand and touched her face very gently, as if he were 
afraid of rousing her. Julian never forgot the 
thrill of cold that ran through him then, freezing his 
heart, and filling him with a teiror that even then 
seemed degrading, so completely did it master him. 
He ran out of the room. He had just sense enough 
to close the door, but after that he remembered 
absolutely nothing of the return journey to his own 


26 


EUNICE 


room. He was between the still warm sheets of his 
bed trembling so that his very cot shook, before he 
had regained anything of composure. For he had 
looked upon death and gained a premature knowl- 
edge of its awful mystery. 

Nurse was still snoring in the next room. Geof- 
frey’s deep breathing had become a little irregular, 
as if some vague disturbance had reached across his 
dreams. Julian hid his face under the bed-clothes. 
He had been very wicked. But whatever happened 
he must keep the awful knowledge of what he had 
done and seen locked up in his own heart. 

It was the sense of guilt, perhaps, that burned the 
episode into his memory and made him feel for 
many months like a criminal escaping arrest. 

But God knew. He wondered what God thought 
of him. 

Although Julian could remember with an almost 
terrifying precision of detail the events of that night 
up to the time of his fleeing from the spare room 
like one pursued, all that immediately followed re- 
mained only in his mind as a blurred and confused 
impression of pain. 

It was the time spoken of in the family always as 
“when Julian was ill;” it saved them from counting 
from that sadder event, the death of Baby Sister. 
The two events had indeed been practically simul- 
taneous. Mother did not go to the funeral because 
she could not leave Julian. It was not until a few 
days later that his illness really declared itself, but 
he was already strange and feverish and perhaps 
“sickening.” For, in spite of all their precautions 
in keeping the elder children away from infection, 
Julian had caught scarlet-fever from Baby Sister and 
for a time the distracted parents thought that a 
second victim would be claimed. He was indeed 


EUNICE 


27 


desperately ill. No one had ever told him about 
it — they were all too wise for that — but he had 
wandered continually in his mind, had cried out in 
terror that Baby Sister was chasing him like a great 
cold white butterfly with wings. She mustn’t, 
mustn^t touch him ! They must save him from her. 
Soon she would chase him right into the sea. If 
she touched him he would freeze to death like the 
old shepherd on the downs. . . . There had been 
something horrible in the delirium of Julian, the 
raving of a helpless, frightened child. . . . 

The servants, nurse especially, were closely ques- 
tioned, but all denied having told the twins anything 
about Baby Sister’s illness and death. Geoffrey’s 
complete ignorance — for they questioned him deli- 
cately — seemed to prove that no indiscretion had 
been committed. Whatever had frightened Julian 
had left Geoffrey unscathed. 

Mrs. Parmeter was distracted and puzzled. She 
had always known that Julian was an imaginative, 
reticent child with the accurate memory of reserved 
people who contemplate the past even more than the 
present, in the silence of their hearts. But here was 
something, alas, which she did not understand, and 
to which she held no clue. She could not believe 
that this fear which he evinced in his delirium was a 
reasonless one. But she foresaw the difficulty of 
questioning him about it hereafter; it was a thing 
best left alone, and if possible forgotten. He was 
very dear to her heart, and in those days when the 
fear of losing him was acute he seemed more passion- 
ately precious than ever before. She could hardly 
be persuaded to leave him. 

Geoffrey was kept in a distant part of the house. 
He understood that Julian was very ill, but he hoped 
that he would not go away to heaven like Baby 
Sister. He asked nurse if this were likely to happen 


28 


EUNICE 


and she only answered: “Goodness gracious, what 
put such an idea as that into your head?” He felt 
snubbed and came to the conclusion that boys — like 
Julian and himself — didn’t go to heaven, at least 
not till they were old. They grew up to be men — 
tall men with oddly fierce, flashing eyes like father, 
impatient and perhaps angry if not immediately 
obeyed. Even now Julian liked to be obeyed be- 
cause he was the elder. And there had been some- 
thing mysterious about Baby Sister, her apparently 
unsuspected advent — since no one had remotely 
alluded to her coming — her constant sleeping, her 
purposeless angry weeping, her inability to walk and 
talk. 

So Julian was not questioned, even when convales- 
cence had given place to a further slow renewal of 
strength and activity. No one, except perhaps his 
mother, suspected how sorely tormented was his 
conscience. Once or twice he had tried to “tell 
mother,” a process that always ended in being taken 
to her heart and kissed an unusual number of times. 
If there had been only mother it is certain that the 
miserable little history would have been confessed. 
But there was father. Although Mr. Parmeter had 
never punished his little sons, they were in great awe 
of him. He stood for some remote, unmeasured 
force that yet had to be reckoned with. One obeyed 
— as fast as one’s legs could carry one. One never 
entered rooms that were forbidden; there was the 
nursery example of Bluebeard to suggest the peril 
of so doing. Anything rather than see a queer light 
flash in those dark eyes, at the merest hint of hesita- 
tion. The coward that exists in nearly all children 
suggested to Julian the immense prudence of silence. 

Besides, he had been punished. God had pun- 
ished him. God had seen and known. Known, 
too, that he wasn’t going to tell. You could not hide 


EUNICE 


29 


anything from Him. That was why He had sent 
Julian a long, long illness, with cruel pain in his ears 
and singing noises in his hpd. Julian in his saner 
moments used to watch with horror the bottles of 
evil-tasting medicine being brought in and placed on 
the mantelpiece, knowing that at appallingly frequent 
intervals their contents would be proffered. But, 
from a queer sense of expiation, of reparation, he 
had swallowed everything without a single remon- 
strance. In his conscious moments he had a brave 
determination to bear his punishment like a man. 
But the mental allied to the physical suffering 
wrought havoc with the child’s none too strong 
constitution. Julian emerged from the experience, 
frail, wizened, wretchedly nervous. The doctor, 
suspecting something yet feeling that the very youth 
of his patient gave the lie to his theories, advised 
a complete change. Early in the new year the Par- 
meters left England and took up their residence in 
Rome. 


CHAPTER III 

N urse was not, after all, exposed to the disagree- 
able necessity of speaking to the ayah, for Mrs. 
Dampier brought Eunice herself to tea with the 
Parmeter boys. Eunice had thought Mrs. Parmeter 
“a most beautiful lady,” and had begged to be 
allowed to buy a great bunch of pink carnations for 
her in the Piazza di Spagna. Mrs. Dampier per- 
mitted the purchase ; she was often indolently good- 
natured in her dealings with her child. 

They were shown into a large room with ancient 
faded silk hangings and with three big windows that 
overlooked Rome. Mrs. Parmeter was already 
there with Julian and Geoffrey, who were looking at 


30 


EUNICE 


some illustrated papers that had just come from 
England. They jumped down from their chairs, 
and, although Geoffrey was self-possessed enough, 
Julian felt a little shy of Eunice. She looked differ- 
ent to-day and more dignified. She went straight 
up to Mrs. Parmeter and lifted the flowers toward 
her, instinctively raising herself a little on tip-toe 
and stretching up her arms. The unconscious pose 
was so charming that Julian was struck by it. It 
reminded him of some slight figure on an ancient 
sarcophagus offering sacrifices. For a second he 
shut his eyes and thought, ‘T must remember her 
just like that.” He often already made these con- 
scious efforts to memorize, and he thought he would 
always remember her in this pose as of one offering 
sacrifices — the slender lifted arms, the head sharply 
tilted back, the dark curls falling to her neck. 

“You can take Eunice to the school-room,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter, presently. 

They all three moved sedately away. When the 
door was closed Mrs. Dampier said half enviously : 

“You are very lucky to have boys. They are 
much less trouble than girls. They can be sent to 
school and they soon learn to look after themselves.” 

She leaned back in her chair and glanced round 
the room with its fine antique furniture. Every- 
where there were bowls of beautiful spring flowers. 
There were bookcases full of books. Evidently it 
was the home of rich people of settled occupations. 
And Mrs. Dampier had never since her marriage 
owned a settled home. It had been a perpetual 
moving from one place to another; from one small, 
inconvenient, cheap bungalow to another. And al- 
ways there had been Eunice, increasing the expense 
and difficulty of each succeeding move. Mrs. Dam- 
pier considered herself an injured woman. 

“I’m very fond of children,” said Mrs. Parmeter 


EUNICE 


31 

smiling, “I don’t want the boys to go away to school. 
But we mean to send them in the autumn.” 

“That second boy of yours is very pretty,” said 
Mrs. Dampier. “Is he much younger than his 
brother?” 

“No — they are twins. They are getting on for 
nine. We came here first because Julian, the elder 
one, was ill. We liked it so much that we stayed 
on. But we shall go back to Brighton, I think, 
next summer.” 

“Go back to Brighton? Do you live at Brigh- 
ton?” inquired Mrs. Dampier, with a slight acces- 
sion of interest. “IVe often thought of going there 
this summer. My husband told me if possible to 
take Eunice to the sea. He’s always in a fidget 
about her because he thinks her too thin. Men are 
so scared about their children, and half the time they 
do not care or even notice if their wives are ill and 
want a change.” She spoke in a discontented, petu- 
lant tone. 

“Shall you be in England long?” asked Mrs. Par- 
meter. 

“As long as Herbert will let me stay. It’s the 
first time I’ve been home for about six years. I hate 
India. I never want to see it again I” 

“I have always wished to go there. But with two 
children one can’t do much traveling,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. 

“Oh, it’s tolerable perhaps if you have lots of 
money,” said Mrs. Dampier, still in the same 
aggrieved, discontented tone; “but it isn’t a cheap 
place to live in now; and for people with small 
means it is odious.” 

There was something in the faded dignified splen- 
dor of this old Roman room that made her look back 
upon the small bungalow she had left with additional 
ill-humor. 


32 


EUNICE 


“The worst of it is,” she continued, while Mrs. 
Parmeter was still thinking of something comforting 
to say, “that Herbert is so attached to the life there 
that he is never likely to leave it and try for an 
appointment in England. Yet he knows that i am 
almost always ill there. The climate is ruin to one’s 
hair and complexion. You must have noticed how 
women who are all the rage in Simla and Calcutta 
aren’t even looked at in London. It’s because they 
are washed out — gone to seed. I used to have such 
a brilliant color !” 

She leaned back in her chair and looked, Mrs. 
Parmeter thought, very like a spoiled, and undisci- 
plined child. Yet she was certainly very pretty still 
and looked less than her thirty-two years, with her 
extremely fair hair and pale, colorless skin and un- 
quiet grey eyes. Mrs. Parmeter felt interested in 
her. She seemed unhappy, and evidently she did 
not get on very well with her husband. It was one 
of those petty, apparently useless little tragedies 
that are so common. And it made Mrs. Parmeter 
feel a little ashamed of having so much — an adoring 
husband, two beloved clever children, a beautiful 
home, besides those spiritual things which helped 
one to bear the crosses that must come to all. 

She poured out some tea and gave it to her guest. 
It was a relief, perhaps, when some other visitors 
came in, and the conversation became general. At 
the sight of one or two men, Mrs. Dampier’s spirits 
improved considerably; she always found it difficult 
to talk to women, reserving for them all her com- 
plaints against husband, child, and servants. Now, 
with a youthful secretary from the Embassy, whose 
parents were old friends of Norman Parmeter’s, 
she became engaged in an animated conversation in 
which all her domestic woes seemed to slip out of 
sight. He happened to be interested in India, and 


EUNICE 


33 


the amusing description she gave him of her ex- 
periences in that country retained him by her side 
for the rest of the afternoon. And the other visi- 
tors were all people of a world that was more or 
less new to her. There were one or two ecclesias- 
tics, a white-haired Catholic bishop whose ring Mrs. 
Parmeter dutifully kissed, a lean, dark-eyed Roman 
monsignore, a very beautiful Italian marchesa with 
the delicate features and luminous dark eyes of her 
race, a couple of young Italian officers who talked 
their own language with amazing rapidity. Then 
one or two English people came in, old residents of 
the colony which in those days still existed, and the 
wife of an American millionaire, whose clothes and 
jewels threatened again to arouse Mrs. Dampier’s 
passionate discontent. 

When nearly everyone had gone she rose and 
said: 

“May Eunice be sent for, please? I think we 
ought to be going.” 

Mrs. Parmeter rang the bell. After a short 
delay the three children appeared. Eunice’s eyes 
were red; Julian looked perturbed and unhappy; 
Geoffrey guilty and abashed. Mrs. Parmeter, with 
her quick mother’s instinct, saw that something had 
gone awry. 

“Why, Eunice, what on earth have you been do- 
ing to yourself?” said Mrs. Dampier, pushing back 
her disheveled hair till it was hidden under her 
broad-brimmed hat. 

“It — it was that boy — ” said Eunice with sudden 
passion and bursting into tears. She indicated Geof- 
frey with her little forefinger. 

Fortunately most of the other visitors had by this 
time taken their leave. Only Mr. Saurnarez, the 
young diplomat, remained, watching the little scene 
with clever, attentive eyes. He was well acquainted 


34 


EUNICE 


with the Parmeter boys and knew them to be 
equable, good-tempered people, who seldom fell out 
among themselves. It was obvious that this dark, 
passionate-looking child had been the firebrand in 
the scene that must have recently taken place in the 
purlieus of the school-room. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” said Geoffrey stoutly, “was 
it, Ju?” He turned to his brother. 

Julian’s immobile white face was set. He did 
not speak. It was clear that he did not intend to 
exonerate his twin from blame. Could it be pos- 
sible that his sympathies were with Eunice ? 

“You know it wasn’t,” said Geoffrey, who was 
again getting angry. 

“You did tease her,” said Julian in the slow man- 
ner of one delivering judgment. “You saw she 
didn’t like it.” 

Eunice was sobbing almost hysterically. She 
clung to her mother, who gave her every now and 
then a little irritated shake and whispered a threat 
in her ear. “Stop crying at once. Do you hear 
me, Eunice? Wait till we get home!” 

Mrs. Parmeter came to the rescue. She drew 
the child to her and kissed the flushed little tear- 
stained face. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry Geoffrey has been teasing you,” 
she said. “It was very naughty of him. I hoped 
you were going to be great friends. Geoffrey must 
tell you how sorry he is before you go.” 

There was a little note of authority in her clear 
voice; it made the boy step forward and say half- 
reluctantly, 

“I’m sorry I made you cry.” 

He tried to take her hand, but Eunice shook it 
off. 

“I won’t say good-by to you. I’ll only say good- 
by to Julian I” 


EUNICE 


35 

Geoffrey retired sulkily. His face was still 
smarting a little from a blow she had given him in 
the school-room. 

Mrs. Dampier was irritated by the little scene. 
Eunice did not often behave badly when she was 
out, although she was so tiresome at home. And 
she had just been speaking of her with a certain 
tenderness to Mr. Saumarez, upon whom she 
feared her daughter could not have made a very 
good impression. 

“Eunice, say good-by to Geoffrey at once!” she 
commanded. 

Eunice was seized with one of those fits of appar- 
ently useless obstinacy which affect the very young. 

“No,” she said, stamping her foot a little on the 
marble floor. 

“Eunice, do you hear me?” Mrs. Dampier’s eyes 
flashed dangerously. 

Eunice stood there, motionless. She was not 
crying now, and her little face had assumed ob- 
stinate, rebellious lines. 

“Very well, then,” said Mrs. Dampier, in a 
menacing tone. 

She made her own farewells and took the little 
girl out of the room. Mrs. Parmeter followed 
them into the hall. 

“I simply can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she 
said in her charming way. She felt a little nervous, 
and wondered in what way Eunice would be pun- 
ished. 

“I must apologize for Eunice,” said Mrs. Dam- 
pier, in a hard, bright tone. “But she will have a 
good whipping the moment she gets home!” 

“Oh, don’t whip her. I’m sure it was Geoffrey’s 
fault,” said Mrs. Parmeter, feeling uncomfortable. 
She disliked violence in any form; towards little 
children it seemed to her almost unpardonable. She 


EUNICE 


36 

felt suddenly sorry for Eunice with a sharp pity 
that almost stabbed her. 

“She knows quite well what will happen when 
she’s naughty,” said Mrs. Dampier. “I assure you 
it isn’t the first time.” 

They passed through the great door that led out 
to the wide, stately marble staircase, and as they 
vanished Mrs. Parmeter caught a sound of renewed 
sobbing. 

Mr. Saumarez was standing in the middle of the 
room when she re-entered it, evidently listening to 
an animated account related by Geoffrey of the 
stormy happenings of that afternoon. Julian was 
sitting apart, turning over the leaves of a book. 

“I imagine there’s a rod in pickle for Miss Eunice 
when she gets home,” said Saumarez, in his slightly 
indolent and ironic voice. 

“Yes, I’m afraid there is,” said Mrs. Parmeter 
restlessly. The little scene between mother and 
daughter had made her feel extremely uncomfort- 
able. She hoped that Geoffrey had not been too 
much to blame. They were generally to be thor- 
oughly depended upon in their intercourse with other 
children. Julian had an innate sense of hospitality 
which made him anxious to offer everything he pos- 
sessed to his guests, and if Geoffrey were ever in- 
clined to be selfish his brother invariably checked 
him. 

“Now, boys, tell me what happened,” she said, 
when Mr. Saumarez had taken his departure. 
“Geoffrey, what did you do?” 

“She said she didn’t like her mother,” said Geof- 
frey, “and I told her she was very wicked. Then 
she got angry and said she wasn’t. And I said she 
was — and she hit me — twice on the cheek.” 

“I hope you didn’t hit her back,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter. 


EUNICE 


37 


“I didn’t let him,” said Julian, looking up from 
his book. “He shouldn’t have gone on saying she 
was wicked when he saw it made her angry.” 

“She oughtn’t to have talked like that about her 
mother,’’ said Geoffrey. “She says her father 
doesn’t like her to be whipped and now that he isn’t 
there her mother whips her very often.” 

“Well, I’m afraid she’s going to be whipped now,” 
said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“There!” said Julian, with sudden passion, to his 
brother. “See the mischief you’ve done I” 

Mrs. Parmeter was a little astonished at his un- 
usual anger. It was very unlike him, too, to speak 
violently to Geoffrey. 

“I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t my fault,” said 
Geoffrey, with tears in his eyes. “I don’t like her. 
I hope she’ll never come here again.” 

“And I hope she’ll come every day — always,” re- 
torted Julian. 

“I’m not sure that I shall ask her again if you’re 
going to quarrel like this,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“She flew at me,” said Geoffrey, “you should 
have seen her! And Ju takes her part.” He con- 
trolled a sob with difficulty. Why had Julian taken 
her part? He must have seen that she was in the 
wrong. 

“You ragged her. You shouldn’t have ragged 
her,” said Julian sullenly. 

“Well, it’s time to go to bed,” said Mrs. Par- 
rneter looking at the clock. “And remember you 
are not to speak to each other again to-night except 
to say goodnight. I can’t have any more discus- 
sions. Do you understand? You must both be 
perfectly silent. Promise.” 

They promised, but there was reluctance in their 
voices. She kissed them both and sent them away 


38 EUNICE 

to bed. Two rather subdued little figures went out 
of the room. 

But when they had gone Mrs. Parmeter scarcely 
thought of them at all. Her mind was full of 
Eunice. She could never bear to see little children 
treated with any harshness or cruelty. And there 
had been rather a cruel look in Mrs. Dampier’s eyes. 

“Poor little girl — poor little girl,” she said aloud 
to herself. 


CHAPTER IV 

E very night after the boys had gone to bed Mrs. 

Parmeter went into the room where they slept 
in two little white cribs and made the sign of the 
cross on their foreheads and murmured the words of 
a blessing. She sometimes wondered if they would 
ever grow too old for the continuance of this cus- 
tom. Already she did not hear them say their 
prayers any more ; that break had come a few months 
ago when she had been kept in bed by some slight 
illness. It was Julian who had first asked to be 
allowed to say his prayers alone. “I can spend 
longer over them,” he explained, “when I don’t 
feel I’m keeping you and Geoff waiting.” He did 
as a rule spend a very long time over them; Geof- 
frey was often asleep before Julian got into bed. 

To-night they were both awake when she went 
into the room. Geoffrey had been crying; his fair 
baby face was flushed and tear-stained. Julian lay 
there looking white and anxious. When it was his 
turn to be blessed and kissed he suddenly put out his 
two thin little arms and drew her face almost pas- 
sionately down to his. 

“Do you think she’ll be hurt much?” he said, and 


EUNICE 


39 


she felt that his body was quivering a little, as if with 
some violent emotion. “I’ve prayed and prayed 
that her mother might forgive her.” 

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll really hurt her, Julian 
dear,” she said consolingly. “Just enough to make 
her remember to be good next time.” 

“I wish it hadn’t happened here,” whispered Ju- 
lian. 

“So do I, darling. Now try to go to sleep. Re- 
member we are going up to the Villa Pamphili to- 
morrow with Mr. Saumarez in his motor.” 

“I wish Eunice could come,” said Julian. 

“I’m afraid her mother wouldn’t let her after 
what happened to-day.” 

“But you could ask. . . .” 

“Well, I must see . . . Vernon may not have 
room for so many.” 

This thought comforted Julian and he fell asleep 
much more quickly than usual. Generally the two 
boys talked in a low tone when nurse was safely out 
of the way. But to-night there was to be no talk- 
ing, and the little necessary discipline had a quieting 
effect upon them both. 

Mrs. Parmeter rang Vernon Saumarez up on the 
telephone. 

“May I ask Mrs. Dampier and Eunice to go with 
us to-morrow?” she said, her voice having a full, 
rich sound that made it quite clear. 

“Oh, yes, do,” came Vernon’s indolent voice. “I 
liked that angry little lady — she amused me. And 
the Anglo-Indian child too. Let ’em all cornel 
How are your Heavenly Twins?” 

“Oh, they’re both in bed ages. ago. They’ve 
calmed down,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“Very well then. To-morrow,” said Vernon, and 
hung up the receiver. 

Before she went to bed that night Mrs. Parmeter 


40 


EUNICE 


wrote a little note to Mrs. Dampier. She had a 
shrewd suspicion that the invitation would be ac- 
cepted because Mrs. Dampier was to be included. 
So she put it in this way so as to make it clear that 
the expedition had been arranged on the children’s 
account : 

“Dear Mrs. Dampier: My twins are going up to 
the Villa Pamphili to-morrow at three o’clock with 
Mr. Saumarez, who is kindly taking us in his car. 
We should be so glad if you would let Eunice come 
too, and if you have no other engagement we hope 
you will bring her yourself. My boys are so peni- 
tent for what happened to-day. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Ivy Parmeter.” 

Mrs. Dampier had not many days to spend in 
Rome, and she always liked to extract as much pleas- 
ure from the present as possible. Of course, it was 
a great nuisance having to drag Eunice with her, but 
there seemed to be no escape; she could hardly ac- 
cept for herself and refuse for her little girl. Mrs. 
Dampier was not yet dressed when the note was 
brought to her. She was enjoying her days of free- 
dom, the exemption from all fixed hours, the liberty 
to do exactly as she liked. Ayah had been in to say 
that Little Missy was not very well . . . Little 
Missy had cried most of the night and had fever this 
morning. 

Mrs. Dampier was irritated with the ayah and 
sent her abruptly away. “She’s only telling me this 
because she knows I punished Eunice last night and 
she wants to put me in the wrong,” she thought com- 
placently, and began to eat the rolls and drink the 
coffee which had just been brought in to her room. 

“Ayah spoils her so — I shall be glad to get rid 


EUNICE 


41 


of that woman,” was her next thought. “Mrs. Par- 
meter seemed quite against my punishing her too. 
That’s why her two children are such dreadful little 
prigs. I could see they are the kind of happy, ador- 
ing family that never has any rows. I wonder what 
Mr. Parmeter is like. Still, I’m sure she is happy. 
And she wears such lovely clothes.” Mrs. Dampier 
sighed. “It must be so odd to get on well like that 
— I suppose I must go to see Eunice.” 

She put on a loose white wrapper and went down 
the passage to Eunice’s room. The doors on each 
side of the passage were still shut and outside almost 
every one of them stood a pair of boots or shoes. 
Some of the shoes were so tiny that Mrs. Dampier 
felt envious and then comforted herself by thinking, 
“It is all nonsense — they must belong to a child. 
No one ever had such a small foot as that.” She 
turned the handle of Eunice’s room and entered 
abruptly. 

“Well, what’s the matter with you?” she said. 

“Ayah says it’s fever,” said Eunice, who was ly- 
ing in bed looking white and pinched. 

Mrs. Dampier stooped down and took Eunice’s 
little hand in her firm white one. 

“Nonsense,” she said carelessly, “you haven’t got 
any fever. Get up at once and don’t be so lazy !” 

If she had been a more sensitive woman she would 
have observed that Eunice seemed to shrink away 
from her touch and her eyes were lifted to her face 
with a bright look of fear. 

They never had any reconciliations. Mrs. Dam- 
pier extracted no expressions of contrition. Eunice 
was naughty and Eunice was punished, and thus a 
proper retribution absolved the offence. 

“Get up and go for a walk. All you want is 
fresh air.” 

Mrs. Dampier went out of the room. She would 


42 


EUNICE 


not tell Eunice yet about the intended expedition. 
It would be time enough to do so at luncheon. She 
was rather glad now that the child should have this 
little pleasure, to make up for yesterday. Mrs. 
Dampier was not ordinarily troubled with twinges 
of conscience, but she felt perhaps that Eunice’s 
punishment on their return last night had been un- 
necessarily severe. A nervous English lady in the 
opposite room had sent her maid to ask if the little 
girl had hurt herself and whether she could be of 
any use . . . 

It was a splendid afternoon in late April. The 
sky was very blue above the massed pine-trees, whose 
straight, rose-grey stems looked like the slender 
columns in some dusky old cathedral. Beneath, the 
turf was very vividly green, and the sound of splash- 
ing fountains lent a soft agreeable accompaniment 
of sound. The deep and long avenue of ilex-trees 
framed a delicious picture of the Alban hills, the 
snow on their summits shining silverly against the 
blue of the sky. There was a fresh wind that stirred 
among the pines and blew back the growing grass 
like fine long hair. There was a scent not only of 
flowers but of the damp rich earth that was putting 
forth its new store of wonderful spring growths. 

Mrs. Parmeter walked beside Mrs. Dampier, and 
on that lady’s other side was Vernon Saumarez, 
moving with swift, elastic strides, which Geoffrey, 
who clung close to him, tried in vain to keep up with. 
Julian and Eunice walked ahead sedately, neither of 
them speaking. They all stopped to look across the 
ancient Via Aurelia at the view — that wonderful 
panorama of Rome with St. Peter’s, immense and 
blond, in the foreground. To the left, Monte 
Mario showed its soft green curves; while straight 
in front of them there was a pale, solitary mountain 
in the distance — Monte Soracte, lying alone like a 


EUNICE 


43 


lion resting upon its paws. Mrs. Parmeter pointed 
out one or two of the principal churches to Mrs. 
Dampier, among the clustering domes that arose 
above the roofs. She knew Rome very well and 
could enumerate them without hesitation. But Mrs. 
Dampier was not really interested in the pale, beauti- 
ful city shining in the brilliant April sunshine. She 
stood there looking very pretty and saying only: 
“Oh, is it really?” from time to time. She wanted 
to stroll about with Mr. Saumarez and exact a due 
amount of admiration from him. Yesterday he had 
seemed quite willing to bestow it in his indolent, in- 
different way, that rather piqued her. To-day he 
struck her as slightly less inclined to be interested, 
and he bestowed far more attention upon Geoffrey’s 
shrill little remarks than could possibly be good for 
such a young child. Perhaps he, too, blamed her 
for the little episode of yesterday. If she could 
only talk to him alone she meant to tell him how 
wrong it was to spoil children — it wasn’t any kind- 
ness to them really. Children were such a heavy 
responsibility. Yes, she knew just what she would 
say to make her action seem quite plausible and in- 
evitable. She suspected him of admiring Mrs. Par- 
meter and her suave, gentle methods of education. 
But that kind of thing would be worse than useless 
with Eunice. 

Julian moved a little apart with Eunice. 

“Don’t you think St. Peter’s is beautiful?” he said, 
his eyes fixed not upon her but upon the dome rising 
in front of them in all its pastel hues of palest grey 
and mauve. 

“Yes,” agreed Eunice. 

“Have you been there to Mass yet?” he inquired. 

“Mass? What do you mean?” 

He flushed at the unexpected ignorance. 

“You’re not a Catholic, then?” 


44 


EUNICE 


She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” 

“When you’re a Catholic,” he explained cau- 
tiously, “you have to go to Mass on Sundays and 
holy-days of — of obligation.” He stumbled a little 
over the long word. “We go to St. Peter’s some- 
times. It’s lovely down in the crypt.” 

“Is it?” said Eunice. “I don’t often go to church. 
And I don’t like it much except the* hymns.” 

They walked under the pine-trees, and the chil- 
dren became less demure and sedate, and ran hither 
and thither playing games and shouting to one an- 
other. Eunice looked like a little fairy thing, so 
light and fleet of foot. She threw off her hat, and 
her dark hair flew wildly in the wind. All her move- 
ments were full of a kind of innate delicate grace; 
one could never picture her doing anything that 
looked awkward and clumsy. They played together 
without quarrelling, and Vernon Saumarez, who was 
devoted to children, joined them in running races 
under the tall, beautiful columns of the pine-trees. 
Mrs. Parmeter and Mrs. Dampier sat and watched 
them, for the air was warm and in this sheltered spot 
they could hardly feel the wind, although they could 
hear it blowing in the tops of the tall trees with a 
continuous stirring sound that was pleasant and 
musical. 

“You see what a good child Eunice can be when 
she likes,” said Mrs. Dampier presently. “I don’t 
want you to think she’s always naughty and quarrel- 
some like she was yesterday.” 

“It was Geoffrey’s fault,” said Mrs. Parmeter, 
rather quickly, “he was teasing her. I didn’t let 
them speak to each other again last night after they 
went upstairs to bed. It’s a punishment they can’t 
bear,” she added. 

“Oh, it would never do to treat Eunice softly like 
that. Last night she got what she’d been asking 


EUNICE 


45 


for/* said Mrs. Dampler, with a short, hard laugh. 

Mrs. Parmeter was silent. She was a woman 
who generally liked every one and saw naturally all 
that was good in them, shutting her eyes to the rest, 
and avoiding the contemplation of what was not 
quite pleasing. But she felt something like an ac- 
tive dislike to Mrs. Dampier stirring in her heart, 
mingled with an impulse of pity for Eunice so sharp 
that it was almost pain. 

‘‘When we get to England I shall engage a good 
strict nursery-governess for her. She’s quite be- 
yond the ayah now. And she’s dreadfully backward 
— she can’t read yet.” Mrs. Dampier’s voice was 
growing every moment more discontented and bored. 
She did not in the least wish to sit there discussing 
children with Mrs. Parmeter. 

At last the children were tired and sat down to 
rest, and Mr. Saumarez joined the others. Mrs. 
Dampier declared that she was cold and would like 
to walk about. She went on ahead with Mr. Sau- 
marez and Mrs. Parmeter followed with Geoffrey. 
They left Julian sitting there with Eunice, who kept 
close to him all the afternoon. She had begun to 
feel that there was safety in his presence. Geoffrey 
might lead her again into the paths of iniquity and 
punishment. 

As he leaned back with his head against the trunk 
of a pine-tree he lifted his eyes a little and presently 
said: 

“Does the wind ever sing songs to you? Real 
songs, Eunice?” His face wore a grave, listening 
expression. 

“No, I don’t think so. But tell me about it.” 

“When it blows through the pines like that it 
sings about the sea. I can almost hear the waves. 
I like to listen to the wind — especially out of doors. 
It seems to have a message that it wants to bring 


46 


EUNICE 


quickly. Indoors it isn’t so nice — it cries when one 
is lying in the dark like a little child that has lost 
its way. I go under the bed-clothes then, so as not 
to hear it.” 

He had a curious, unchildlike way of speaking 
that interested Eunice. She listened to him as she 
would have listened if he had told her an enthralling 
fairy-tale. Long afterward, when she was grown 
up, she could always picture Julian as a little boy in 
a sailor-suit telling her that when one was lying 
awake in the dark the wind seemed to cry like a 
lost child. 

“I wish I could think of things like that,” she con- 
fessed, enviously. “I can never think of anything 
interesting when I’m lying awake in bed. Generally 
I can only think of all the times I’ve been naughty 
that day.” 

“Are you always naughty — every day?” he asked. 

“Lots of times every day,” said Eunice un- 
ashamedly. “That’s why I’m always getting into 
rows.” 

Julian was silent. He thought of his one great 
offence and wondered if Eunice had ever committed 
anything so flagrant as that. 

“She whipped me last night when we got home,” 
continued Eunice, indicating her mother’s retreating 
form. “Ayah said it was a shame. I cried and 
cried and couldn’t sleep.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Julian. “I think it was a shame, 
too. You didn’t do anything really bad.” He 
looked at her pityingly. “It was Geoffrey’s fault 
really.” 

“I’m always getting punished,” said Eunice miser- 
ably; “it must be lovely to be happy and good with 
no one to hurt you.” 

She seemed to have described in a few words his 
own lot. He suddenly realized his own immense 


EUNICE 


47 


happiness. He had never thought much about it; 
now it rose before him like a picture drawn with a 
few deft touches. He felt almost that he might 
have missed the surprising knowledge if Eunice had 
not disclosed it to him in this impersonal way. He 
knew himself to be surrounded by love and tender- 
ness, and an understanding that was quick to forgive 
his faults. And for the last two years and a half 
he had striven consciously to be good, never really 
to offend nor disobey. He had imposed this disci- 
pline, this mortification, upon himself in his endeavor 
to expiate his great sin that lay still unconfessed and 
so heavy upon his conscience. He had envied Geof- 
frey because he had nothing like that to conceal. 
It was a part of their daily training that they should 
own their faults, and their mother, wise in her ex- 
treme tenderness, used to have them with her each 
evening, but always separately, so that she might 
learn and forgive those small offences. She never 
guessed what her own grief had once constrained her 
to miss. 

“Aren’t you ever naughty?” said Eunice at last, 
wondering at his long silence. 

“Of course I am,” he said quickly, flushing as he 
spoke. 

“Don’t they punish you?” 

“Not like that,” he said. 

“I’d like to change places with you,” said Eunice, 
“if it weren’t for papa. But I love papa. He’s 
always kind to me. I wish hi could be here now. 
We shan’t see hint again for ever so long. Not per- 
haps till next winter.” 

“Tell me about him,” said Julian. 

“He’s got two medals,” said Eunice, “and he 
rides a grey charger. I like it best when he’s in full 
uniform. He looks splendid then.” Her dark 
eyes shone. 


48 


EUNICE 


She did not know that she was putting before 
Julian a picture utterly different from any that had 
come within his own small experience. He could 
never visualize his own father without a pen in his 
hand and a table burdened with books in front of 
him. Never could his imagination have conjured up 
such fantasies as a grey charger and a splendid shin- 
ing uniform. He could only form a mental picture 
of one of those resplendent young officers of the 
Italian cavalry whom he had seen riding past on 
some of his morning walks. Eunice, in spite of all 
the disadvantages of her present life, certainly pos- 
sessed enviable memories. Some day he would get 
her to tell him about India, and that long voyage 
she had made across the sea. To-day there was no 
time, for already Vernon Saumarez was coming 
toward them, shouting their names and telling them 
that it was time to go home. 


CHAPTER V 


Tt was a terrible disappointment to Julian to learn 
a day or two later that they would in all prob- 
ability not see Eunice again. Mrs. Dampier wrote 
a little note to Mrs. Parmeter saying that she had 
.met some friends who were leaving at once for 
England, and she had resolved to travel with them. 
She added at the end of the letter that she hoped 
perhaps they might meet again later on in Brighton, 
and regretted that she had not time to bring Eunice 
to say good-by. Her plans were always made very 
abruptly, and she liked the unusual sensation of be- 
ing able to obey her own least whim, to go and 
come as she chose. Rome had been charming; she 
had enjoyed die glimpse she had had of the life 



EUNICE 


49 


there, but she was tired of living in hotels with only 
her child to keep her company, and she was longing 
to get home. 

“Perhaps we shall see them some day in Brigh- 
;on,” said Mrs. Parmeter, aware that Julian’s face 
had suddenly become slightly gloomy. 

“I hope not,” said Geoffrey, “I don’t care a pin 
about Eunice. She wasn’t really a bit nice!” 

Julian did not say a word. He knew that Geof- 
frey’s intention had been to get a rise out of him, 
and he refused to be drawn into a discussion. Eu- 
nice had gone, and it would only make matters worse 
to talk about it. And there was some hope of see- 
ing her again in Brighton. He had never met any 
one quite like her before. He could talk to her 
without any fear of being ridiculed; he had told her 
of his own dreams and fancies, had liked the look 
of interest in her dark, attentive eyes. 

Soon another event was to put Eunice rather in 
the background of his thoughts. This was the 
arrival of their uncle. Father Parmeter, a Jesuit 
priest who was on his way to China. He was Mr. 
Parmeter’s only brother, and they had not seen him 
for some years. He was an austere, ascetic-look- 
ing man, with dark flashing eyes very like his 
brother’s, but there the resemblance ceased. He 
had all those qualities of zeal, initiative, and energy 
which Norman Parmeter rather conspicuously 
lacked. With the priest they were directed solely 
toward that one channel of activity which absorbed 
the whole of his life and thoughts; his spiritual 
ardor, as well as his physical strength, being all 
royally spent for the Vineyard in which he labored. 
His thin and spare form was capable of the most 
heroic exertions ; he thirsted secretly for martyrdom, 
and there was something about him so fiercely earn- 
est that many people considered him fanatical. As 


50 


EUNICE 


far as he could be said to retain any family affection, 
he was devoted to his only brother; he admired the 
wisdom and tenderness of Ivy, and he was deeply in- 
terested in the two boys. 

He had obtained leave to stay with them during 
his brief sojourn in Rome, primarily arranged in 
order that he might have an audience with the Holy 
Father before his departure for his apostolic labors 
in the East. He arrived only a few days after Mrs. 
Dampier had departed. 

At luncheon one day he said suddenly : 

“Have these two youngsters of yours made their 
first communion yet, Norman?” 

Mr. Parmeter looked up quickly, glanced at the 
two boys sitting demurely one on each side of their 
mother, and answered, 

“No — they have never been to confession yet. 
We were rather waiting till we got home.” 

Julian turned quite scarlet and looked miserable. 
His uncle, however, did not observe him, and said : 
“Well, it’s high time they did. How old are they?” 

“Oh, they’re only just eight, you know,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. 

“Seven’s the right age,” said the priest. 

Julian’s heart sank, and he felt a strange shock as 
of icy water touching his spine. The perspiration 
stood on his brow like little beads. The child 
looked the picture of guilt and misery. He could 
only hope with almost the force of a prayer that no 
one would notice him. 

“I think you’re quite right,” said Norman Par- 
meter. “You must see about it, my dear,” he added 
turning to his wife. 

“Much better get it over before they go to school,” 
said Father Parmeter, in his decisive way. 

Mrs. Parmeter looked quickly at Julian and then 
lowered her eyes. 


EUNICE 


51 


“I have been thinking of it too,” she said. 

Seven years old — the age of reason. She thought 
perhaps that Julian might suffer very much in antici- 
pation of that discipline, as sometimes highly nerv- 
ous and imaginative children will. Of Geoffrey she 
had no fear. He would go through life carelessly, 
always full of eagerness for what the present and 
the immediate future might hold for him. 

“You might give them a little preliminary instruc- 
tion while you are here, John,” said Norman Par- 
meter. 

“Very well. I’ll see them in your study after 
lunch,” said Father Parmeter. “Do they know 
their catechism?” 

“Not very well yet,” said Mrs. Parmeter. “At 
least Geoffrey does better than Julian.” She was 
always very careful to give Geoffrey his due. 

She was rather relieved to find that the matter 
had been so completely taken out of her hands. She 
had often said to herself, “I ought to make them 
go. I wish I could make up my mind.” And al- 
ways there had been some thought of Julian to make 
her reluctant and hesitating. And they were still 
so little — such babies in so many ways. They had 
seemed so specially young in comparison with a 
modern, experienced child like Eunice Dampier. 

“Well, we must have a talk about it, mustn’t we, 
boys?” said Father Parmeter. 

Geoffrey said “Yes, uncle,” in his shrill treble: 
Julian opened his lips but no sound came. He had 
the feeling that he had suddenly discovered himself 
without warning in a dentist’s chair preparatory to 
having a tooth out. 

“What’s the matter, Julian?” said Norman Par- 
meter. 

“Nothing,” said Julian almost sullenly. 

Would they remember — when they knew all — 


52 


EUNICE 


the heroic attempts he had made to “keep good” 
ever since that dreadful episode which rose like a 
ghost from the past to confront him? Would they 
make excuses for him in the kindness of their hearts? 
He had always felt there had been something unfor- 
givable about his offence. His mother, knowing of 
it, might never love him so well, trust him so com- 
pletely again. He would be marked as disobedient 
and deceitful. 

“You can run away, children,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter, as soon as dessert was over, “I’ll send for 
you when Uncle John is ready.” She smiled at 
them, but Julian’s stony little face never relaxed. 

When the door had closed behind the two little 
figures Norman said: “Why, what’s the matter 
with Julian, Ivy?” 

“I think it’s the idea of going to confession. I’ve 
always felt it might frighten him. He’s so sensi- 
tive and nervous.” She made the excuse she always 
made whenever he appeared less courageous and 
manly than Geoffrey. “It’s since his illness, you 
know.” 

“My dear, his illness is ancient history,” said 
Norman, rather impatiently. 

“I dare say he has a sensitive conscience,” said 
Father Parmeter, “many children have, you know; 
and, then, the prospect of confession alarms them.” 

She had a word with him alone before she sent 
the boys down to him. 

“Be very gentle with Julian,” she whispered, “you 
see how it is with him. You can say what you like 
to Geoffrey ...” 

Father Parmeter was alone in the study when the 
boys came in. He had been glancing at the paper 
and as they entered he looked up and regarded them 
attentively. Geoffrey was smiling, but Julian was 
still very pale. Evidently the boy had something 


EUNICE 


53 


on his mind— something much more definite than a 
mere shrinking from the thought of going to con- 
fession. The priest took a little book from his 
pocket and began to examine them in their catechism. 
He was a little astonished at Geoffrey’s rapid and 
accurate answers. Julian’s words were slow and 
hesitating, often he stumbled and had to be helped. 
At last he completely failed and Father Parmeter 
said: “You’ll have to learn that again, Julian. I’ll 
hear you say it to-morrow.” He shut up the book, 
closed his eyes for a second, and then began to give 
them a simple instruction on the sacrament of Pen- 
ance. He spoke very kindly, but in a grave, im- 
pressive way, as if he were anxious that they should 
remember what he said. Julian listened, never tak- 
ing his eyes from his uncle’s face. In its thin dark- 
ness it reminded him of some old portrait in one 
of the galleries, harsh, resolute, and yet with some- 
thing of sadness in it, as if he had seen many things 
that had made him sorry. And gradually, as he 
listened, something of Julian’s overwhelming fear 
left him. For what was he saying? “The Church 
has fixed the age of reason at seven years. That 
is why children under seven years of age are not 
held to be capable of committing a mortal sin, and 
therefore it is not usual for them to approach the 
sacrament of Penance until they have reached that 
age. . 

For some minutes Julian heard no more. The 
words had fallen like a healing hand upon his tor- 
mented little heart; he was meditating upon them, 
fitting them to his own case, applying them to him- 
self. He had learned that part of the catechism 
which deals with mortal sin, and he had come to the 
bitter conclusion that his own premeditated act of 
disobedience, with its train of consequences, had been 
indeed a mortal sin, for which God had justly pun- 


54 


EUNICE 


ished him. Whenever he had read or learned that 
part of the catechism he had felt a sense of chill and 
physical sickness. And now — it was as if a great 
weight had been lifted from his heart. He had 
been barely six years old at the time of Baby Sister’s 
death; he could not, therefore, be deemed capable 
of committing a mortal sin. The Church said so. 
He had never since that time deliberately committed 
the slightest fault of disobedience or deception. 
Nurse had often said he had been a “different boy” 
since his illness; she would sometimes invite Geof- 
frey — who was really her favorite — to imitate his 
brother’s admirable behavior. But Julian, knowing 
the reason of the change in himself, felt humbled 
rather than elated by the praise. 

As he sat there looking at his uncle, with stead- 
fast and shining eyes full of a new light of hope, 
some words from the Bible came back to his mind. 
He could not remember them exactly, but they were, 
he thought, a little like this: *^How beautiful upon 
the mountains are the feet of Him that hringeth good 
tidings and that preacheth peace/^ How beautiful 
upon the mountains . . . He had always been fas- 
cinated by the words; had even pictured the mes- 
sengers arriving in Rome across the lovely snow- 
clad summits of the Alban hills. Young, joyous mes- 
sengers, swift and fleet of foot . . . Now the text 
hammered upon his brain. He could have knelt 
down and worshiped at the feet of this dark-faced 
priest with the hollow, smouldering eyes that seemed 
to hold hidden fires. . . . 

“So, you see, it isn’t anything to be afraid of,” 
said Father Parmeter, smiling kindly upon them. 
“The only thing to be afraid of is to do wrong — to 
offend God, to separate ourselves deliberately from 
Him by sin in any shape or form. But if we have 
sinned. He has in His great mercy given us this 


EUNICE 


55 


sacrament of Penance, by which we can regain His 
friendship and receive His grace once more. . . 

He became aware that Julian was looking at him 
with a changed and softened expression. 

“And I would like you to remember one thing,” 
he went on, “and that is never all through your lives 
to put off going to confession when you know that 
you have offended. That makes two sins instead 
of one. You won’t forget that, either of you, will 
you?” 

“No, Uncle John,” they both said in chorus, and 
this time Julian’s voice was quite as audible and 
distinct as Geoffrey’s. 

“Well, I think that’s enough for to-day. Julian, 
you’ll learn that part I showed you again for to- 
morrow?” 

“Yes, Uncle John,” said Julian. He slid off his 
chair and approached Father Parmeter with a cur- 
ious shy eagerness. 

“Oh, thank you — thank you,” he said. 

Then, without waiting for Geoffrey, he turned 
and went out of the room, for the tears had gathered 
thickly in his eyes. 


CHAPTER VI 

‘‘TTunice's father is in the army,” said Geoffrey 
that evening when they went into the drawing- 
room for an hour before going to bed. 

When there were no visitors, Norman Parmeter 
generally joined them, for he saw little enough of 
his boys. But sometimes, too, his work kept him 
in that mysterious room called “the study,” to which 
the children only went by invitation. 

“She asked what father was,” he continued, look- 


EUNICE 


56 

ing up into his father’s face. He was much less 
afraid of Norman than Julian was; his imagina- 
tion never invested him with mysterious and alarm- 
ing attributes, and it was perhaps for this reason that 
if Norman had a preference it was for Geoffrey. 
He was the kind of boy that a man would naturally 
prefer, he was hardy, vigorous, manly, and full of 
careless courage. 

His dark eyes held a gleam of sardonic amuse- 
ment. 

“And what did you say?” inquired Norman. 

“It was Ju told her you were a poet,” said Geof- 
frey. 

“Thanks awfully, Ju I” 

“She didn’t know what it meant,” confessed Geof- 
frey. Her ignorance on the point had made him 
feel momentarily ashamed of his father’s calling. 
Now, every one knew what being in the army meant; 
it required no explanation. 

“I feel sure,” cried Norman, “that you were 
able to explain it to her.” 

“Yes,” said Geoffrey eagerly, “and afterward 
she told Mrs. Dampier who asked if you were in 
the Golden Treasury I” 

“My dear boy. I’m not quite a classic yet,” said 
Norman. “No one has ever heard of me !” There 
was a touch of bitterness in his voice. He was a 
man of quiet but intense ambition; yet it was true 
that few people had even heard his name or could 
repeat by heart one single line from those little grey 
booklets that once a year found their way to the old 
Roman palace. Perhaps few realized their beauty 
and artistry as Mrs. Parmeter did. Some day she 
believed that the poet would stir in Julian. 

“Eunice doesn^ learn poetry yet,” continued 
Geoffrey, “she hardly does any lessons. She’s 
frightfully ignorant.” 


EUNICE 


57 

“She will have regular lessons when she’s in Eng- 
land,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

Now it was time for bed, and to-night she had 
something to say to each of the boys to supplement 
in some measure Father Parmeter’s little discourse. 
Evidently he had been most kind and tactful, for all 
the dreadful haunted look had gone from Julian’s 
face ; he was for him in almost wild spirits this even- 
ing. She was glad that the task had been taken out 
of her hands, and accomplished with such good re- 
sults. 

She took Julian first into her little sitting-room 
beyond the big salotto and closed the door of com- 
munication. 

“Julian, darling, I hope you’ve been thinking of 
what Uncle John has told you about your first con- 
fession?” Those were her words as she drew the 
little boy to her. He stood there leaning against 
her shoulder. Only by turning her head could she 
see his face. 

“Yes, mummy.” 

“And you realize that it’s nothing so very alarm- 
ing — nothing that you need be really afraid of.” 

“Yes, mummy. I felt very happy when he was 
talking. I like Uncle John — I wish he wasn’t go- 
ing away to China.” 

“Oh, you mustn’t wish that. He is going to teach 
very poor, neglected, ignorant people to be good 
Catholics. He will be a messenger.” 

His own very word ! Yes, a messenger swift and 
eager to deliver his good tidings, his word of peace. 
Julian’s pale little face was alight. “How beauti- 
ful upon the mountains.” He murmured the words 
aloud. 

“I shall never forget what he told us,” he said 
presently. 

She was a little surprised, though relieved, to find 


58 


EUNICE 


that Julian had emerged from the interview com- 
forted and no longer afraid. She ought to have 
trusted her brother-in-law to make it easy for the 
children; he had such an immense experience of 
souls. Even the delicate, timid souls of young chil- 
dren. 

“I’m glad you paid attention,” she said brightly. 
“And now you’ll think about it sometimes, won’t you, 
Julian? Begin your examination of conscience this 
very night.” 

“Just the things I’ve done to-day?” he asked. 

“Yes. But think too of all the wrong things you 
can remember having done — all the times you can 
think of when you have been disobedient, or un- 
truthful or angry — all the times you have quarreled 
and fought with Geoffrey, and have been rude to 
nurse ...” 

“All the times? In all my life?” he asked, look- 
ing blank. 

“Yes. You’ve got such a good memory for past 
things it ought to be quite easy for you. Easier than 
for Geoffrey.” 

She was still holding him, but now she felt that 
his little body pressed against her rather more 
heavily, as if for support, and that he was trembling 
a little. 

One sin stood out blackly. Nothing else mat- 
tered. 

“And then — as I’m sure Uncle John told you — 
you must try to feel very very sorry.” 

He stood there, pale, speechless. 

“And you must make very strong resolutions to 
try never to be naughty — to do anything wilfully 
wrong again.” 

“But must I think of things that happened before 
I was seven years old?” 

“Yes, if you can remember anything very particu- 


EUNICE 


59 


larly. Anything that you feel very sorry for. If 
there’s something that hurts your conscience to re- 
member, I think you ought to make up your mind to 
be brave — and confess it.” 

“I can’t do it, mummy,” he said at last, “I simply 
can’t.” At that moment he was nearer to telling 
her than he had ever been before. 

Mrs. Parmeter put her arm more closely about 
him in an endeavor to draw him nearer. But she 
could feel that now he held himself stiffly; his body 
did not yield to the caress, and he seemed to be in- 
stinctively withdrawing himself, by an interior hard- 
ening process. Yes, his little body was against her 
arm; his soul miles away in its own imprisoned 
solitude. The thought hurt her; she had believed 
him to be so close to her heart. 

“Dear, don’t say that,” she told him gently. 
“After all, you must remember that what you tell 
the priest is an absolute secret. He can never speak 
of it, even to you again except in the confessional. 
Even if it hurts, we all have to go through it. Your 
father and I — even Uncle John. Even the Holy 
Father himself.” 

His face brightened perceptibly. 

“Then you’d never know?” he said quickly. 

“Never from the priest. Only — only if you told 
me yourself.” 

He was back now in the chilly, shadow-haunted 
spare room at Brighton. Its unfamiliar spaces 
were pale with moonlight, blue, ghostly moonlight. 
He was stooping over the pink-and-white crib, look- 
ing at Baby Sister with a fearful searching for wings. 

“I wish you hadn’t any secrets from me, Ju,” she 
said. 

He stirred under her touch, trembling a little 
again. She thought : “What a bundle of nerves he 


6o 


EUNICE 


is. It’s since his illness.” But he did not speak; 
he was as far as ever now from confiding in her. 

“You’re not afraid of me?” she said. 

“No — no,” he reassured her eagerly. If they 
two had been alone in the world, how gladly would 
he have told her everything! 

“You must try to take things as simply as Geoffrey 
does,” she said. 

“Geoff won’t mind going to confession. He’ll 
rather like it. He likes new ex — experiences,” said 
Julian, stumbling over the word. But he had 
summed his brother up with delicate accuracy. 

“Try to be a little like that.” 

“I’m not Geoffrey. Something inside me is quite 
different.” 

“Perhaps it’s something you must learn to 
change.” 

“It’s like this. If you were to punish Geoff he 
would be happy again in about half an hour — he 
would laugh about it. If you were to punish me I 
should be mi^trruhle for ages and ages. I shouldn’t 
ever not remember.” 

“But you mustn’t be a coward about punishment. 
If you’ve done wrong you must face the consequences 
and bear them bravely.” 

He surprised her by saying suddenly : “But I did.” 

“Why, I don’t remember that you’ve ever been 
really punished, Ju.” 

“Not by you and father,” he admitted slowly. 

“Not — by nurse?” 

Nurse was a strict disciplinarian, even a little too 
strict; but she had been positively forbidden ever to 
lay a finger upon her charges. 

Pie shook his head. 

“Then what do you mean, darling? Who pun- 
ished you?” 

“I mean — it was God who punished me.” His 


EUNICE 


6i 


eyes were strange, and held an almost mystical ex- 
pression. She thought he must be dreaming. 

“What makes you think that, Julian?” 

“Because it came so quickly — the punishment, I 
mean. He didn’t wait.” 

She was puzzled beyond endurance. She kissed 
his brown head and cried: “Darling, do tell me 
what you mean. I don’t even know what you are 
talking about!” 

While she held and kissed him in this comforting, 
understanding way he could have told her all. But 
there was father. The thought of his father’s eyes, 
gleaming, sardonic, commanding, drove him back 
to his safe silence. 

“It wasn’t a mortal sin, mummy,” he told her with 
perfect gravity. 

She caught him to her. “Oh, my darling baby!” 

“Because I wasn’t old enough. Uncle John said 
you can’t commit a mortal sin before you are seven.” 

“And this wrong thing that you did, Julian, hap- 
pened before you were seven?” 

“I was nearly six,” he answered. 

“But you’re very, very sorry now?” 

“Very sorry.” 

“Shall I tell you something, Ju?” 

“Yes, please, mummy.” 

“You’ll be much happier when you’ve been to con- 
fession. If this thing has hurt your conscience for 
two years you must know that you did something 
that was very wrong. So you must make up your 
mind to tell it when you go to confession for the 
first time. Explain it to the priest — don’t keep any- 
thing back. Be very sorry and then try never to 
think about it again. That’s the best way.” 

She kissed him on both flushed cheeks. 

“Now go and tell Geoff to come!” 

It was all plain sailing with Geoffrey. He un- 


62 


EUNICE 


derstood what would be required of him and was 
quite prepared to do it. That was how he would 
go through life, simply and efficiently, with plenty 
of courage to meet the difficult moment. 

Julian went to bed that night feeling as if the 
day had been very long and heavy with the promise 
of doom. 

Mrs. Parmeter lay awake far into the night, 
pondering over the cryptic utterances of Julian. 
She, his mother, who had watched over him almost 
hourly ever since he was born, held no clue to this 
mysterious delinquency, which so evidently was still 
harassing his conscience. It was true that before 
his illness he had been more like Geoffrey in charac- 
ter, hardier, less self-controlled, less serious. Some- 
thing of his childhood had been left behind then, 
and she had attributed it to the very severe pain 
he had sometimes suffered. She had been struck 
even then by his grim powers of endurance, his pa- 
tience under the pain that had sometimes to be in- 
flicted on this tortured little body. Another child 
would probably have forgotten all about it more 
readily, but Julian had a curiously retentive memory. 
From that time there had certainly been a change in 
him, but she could not remember that either before 
or after he had been guilty of any childish rnisde- 
meanor. They were both truthful and obedient 
children; she had never had any trouble with them. 
Geoffrey, it is true, was sometimes wild and unman- 
ageable and had a sudden passionate temper; his 
faults were surface faults, easily corrected. He was 
as much like other boys — other healthy manly boys 
— as Julian was unlike them. 

She had not forced Julian’s confidence; she was 
afraid of spoiling the really beautiful and deep in- 
timacy that existed between herself and her elder 
boy. Some day he would come and tell her, of his 


EUNICE 


63 

own free will. Until that time came she would 
show him by a thousand signs how dear he was to 
her, how nothing he could ever do could separate 
him from that mother-love that went straight from 
her own heart to his. 


CHAPTER VII 

**lVr birthday” was an event only second to 
their own, which fell in November. Hers 
came at the end of April, and the twins always 
saved up their pocket-money. For a month they 
bought no sweets. It was odd that during that 
month Mummy very often gave them sweets; still, 
it was impossible she could have divined their sacri- 
fice. It would have spoiled it all if she had even 
remotely guessed what was in store for her. 

This year Julian was reticent on the subject; he 
only declined when Geoffrey proposed it, to make a 
joint gift; he wouldn’t even say what he intended 
to give her. Geoffrey, in revenge, tried to be silent, 
too, but after a week of this policy he grew tired of 
the mystery and told Julian he was going to give her 
a vase. Julian accepted the information without 
comment; if Geoffrey had intended to provoke him 
into a counter-confidence, he failed signally. 

This year the birthday fell on a Sunday, and Mrs. 
Parmeter on her return from an early Mass with 
Norman discovered on her breakfast-tray the two 
parcels. Geoffrey’s vase imperfectly concealed by 
a wrapping of soft paper was the first to be opened. 
The other, a flat, narrow parcel, might have con- 
tained anything. She opened it and a piece of note- 
paper fell out. Julian had written upon it in care- 


64 


EUNICE 


ful round hand: *‘Corhan — which is a gift. From 
Julian.^* And the gift was a little silver paper-cutter 
darkened with age and worn thin. He had seen 
it in a tray with other small antique articles in an 
old shop, and had decided that Mummy, with her 
love for everything old, would certainly like it. She 
was glad Julian was not there, for the inscription 
made her laugh till the tears ran down her cheeks. 

“Twinnies!” She went to the door and called 
them, and they, evidently awaiting the summons 
with impatient eagerness, came helter-skelter down 
the long passage. First Geoffrey was kissed, and 
then Julian, who never tried to reach her first but 
stood aside. as if conscious of Geoffrey’s- prerogative. 
But did she hold Geoffrey quite so long and quite so 
tightly to her heart as she was holding Julian now? 
“Darling, I do like it — Corban and all,” she 
whispered. 

“I rubbed it up,” said Julian, “but it wouldn’t 
come bright.” 

“Never mind. I’ll give it to Giuseppe and tell 
him to rub it up.” 

“Yes, now; but I wasn’t going to let him see it 
before I gave it to you. It was a secret from all 
the world.” 

Whereat he was kissed again in that tender, half- 
wistful way with which she always greeted any 
manifestation of his childish love for her. So it had 
been his own thought — Corban and all. Geoffrey 
watched the repeated embrace with some surprise. 
After all, it was nothing very wonderful — nothing 
worth making a secret about — this little dirty piece 
of old silver. He preferred his own glittering crys- 
tal vase, that would stand always on Mummy’s writ- 
ing-table filled with beautiful flowers. 

Norman Parmeter came into the room, his thin, 
bitter face twisting into a smile as he looked at the 


EUNICE 


65 


little group. Ivy never appeared so delicious, so 
animated, as she did when she was with her children. 
She adored these callow, undeveloped little boys. 
He pulled her to him almost resentfully, and kissed 
her in the way that always told her she had some- 
how unconsciously hurt him. What had she done? 
Ivy was never morbid, and she always tried to show 
him her wise and most practical side, as if to protect 
them both with a solid weatherproof cloak, imper- 
vious to too much poetry. But it was the boys, of 
course ! He had seen that long, wistful embrace be- 
stowed upon Julian. How supersensitive he was, 
just as if he had no room in his heart for any one 
in the world except herself I She freed herself 
from his embrace and said: 

“Twinnies, you must go for a walk early to-day. 
The sun’s lovely.” 

It was not quite a dismissal, and they were eager 
to stay a little longer. They were both also in- 
tensely curious to see what father was going to give 
her. 

“So it’s a birthday, Ivy. Twenty-nine — you 
ought to be ashamed of yourself for looking like 
eighteen. Who’d take you for a responsible Brit- 
ish matron, the mother of twins?” His eyes soft- 
ened. “Do you want a birthday present at your 
time of life, my dear?” 

“Of course I do, Norman. Always from you — ” 

He dive.d into his pocket and drew out a tiny 
parcel. The boys watched breathlessly. A little 
blue velvet box, and then within, on a white satin 
lining, the loveliest diamond ringl Ivy was fond 
of rings, it was her only vanity. 

“Oh, Norman — how too lovely I And how wrong 
of you.” 

She slipped it on to her finger and turned it this 
way and that. The man watched her, loving her 


66 


EUNICE 


beauty, loving something elusive in her that he never 
felt he could make his own. 

“When Fm grown up I shall give my wife a dia- 
mond ring,” shrilled Geoffrey, with a challenging 
glance at Julian. 

“I shall never give one to any one but Mummy,” 
announced Julian. 

“Oh yes, you will. You’ll give one to Eunice!” 
mocked Geoffrey. 

Julian flushed darkly. “That’s all you know 
about it, silly billy.” 

Mrs. Parmeter said: 

“Hush, darlings — don’t quarrel.” 

“It’s true — I’ll never give one to aiw one except 
to you. I shall save up my money!” Julian’s voice 
was determined. 

Norman wheeled round. 

“So you think Mummy would want a ring from 
you?” 

Julian raised his eyes to his father. “Yes, father.” 

He crept up to his mother. She put her arm 
round his neck and caressed his cheek with her hand 
— the hand with the new ring sparkling on it. 

“Now run along to nurse.” 

They obeyed. Julian went quietly and Geoffrey 
followed. He nearly always took his cue from his 
brother. The door closed on their two meek, obe- 
dient backs. 

“My dear — that boy’s a terror!” said Norman. 

“Julian?” She looked up sharply. 

“Yes. Where does he get his wisdom from?” 

“From you, Norman. I often think you must 
have been very like that. It’s made me — ” she 
wanted to explain that softness, those caresses of 
hers — “so fond of Julian!” 

“Oh, Ivy,” he said reproachfully, “you have 


EUNICE 67 

cheated me ! I never thought you’d let those two 
brats take such a huge share of your heart.” 

“One never knows,” she laughed, “what maternity 
will do 1” 

“Fm beastly jealous of Julian,” he confessed. 

“You mustn’t be.” She lifted her face. 

“It’s odd, but I never feel like that about Geoff.” 
He said this when he had kissed and released her. 

“Try not to feel it. It hurts us all — you and me 
and Ju. I’ve seen him shrink — as if he knew.” 

“Let him go to school! Let him learn to be like 
other boys! Do get him to stop thinking. Ivy.” 

“Did they ever stop you?” 

“They didn’t set about it the right way. A 
private tutor till I went to Oxford — John was even 
against my doing that. And anyhow, we don’t want 
two poets in the family.” 

Was he afraid that this strange and silent son of 
his might touch heights unattainable by himself — 
grasp too the sweets of success and fame that he 
had missed? She could not believe him envious, 
and yet his tone was embittered as if he were 
suffering. 

“We’ll send him into the navy — far the best thing 
for a boy. The army for Geoff, since he’s so set 
on it.” 

Ivy grew a little pale. 

“Darling — they’re only just eight. And we must 
let them have some say in the matter.” 

She was a little depressed; the joy seemed to have 
gone out of the day. She stood there hesitating. 

“Ivy — Ivy — ” he said penitently, suddenly aware 
that he had hurt her. 

“By the way, John is to take them to Father Bene- 
dict to-day,” she said. “You know he has been seeing 
him about them. He wants them to make their first 
communion on Corpus Christi.” 


68 


EUNICE 


Norman smiled. 

“So you’ve let John settle things?” he said. 

“Yes. He thinks we have delayed too long. 
I’m beginning to agree with him.” 

“Joh^n has certainly set our house in order,” he 
remarked. 

But he was in reality devoted to his brother, and 
invariably followed his advice. He was glad that 
Ivy never resented that zealous interference. They 
both were accustomed to bow before that indomi- 
table will. 

The Jesuit had not much longer to spend in Rome. 
He gave the children regular daily instructions, and 
they were perfectly prepared to make their con- 
fessions. To this end he had approached an old 
friend of his, Father Benedict, who for the present 
was to be entrusted with the direction of these two 
young souls. 

“We couldn’t have arranged everything half so 
well ourselves,” said Mrs. Parmeter. “John’s pre- 
pared the boys beautifully. Even Julian isn’t 
nervous any more.” 

Ever since that first day she had not again 
approached the subject to Julian. Whatever it was 
that was fretting his conscience, it would soon cease 
to torment him. He had been happier and brighter 
ever since that talk they had had together. 

Norman kissed her again. “I must go back to 
my work. Come presently, won’t you. Ivy? I 
want you to run through the proofs of those new 
lyrics.” 

“Of course I’ll come,” she said. 

* * 

It was Father Parmeter who took the two boys 
to the church where Father Benedict was to be found, 
so that they might make their confessions. Julian 
never forgot that day; the walk in the bright May 


EUNICE 


69 

sunshine through the crowded streets of Rome, past 
the great fountain of Trevi and up the flights of 
steps that led to the Quirinal Palace, its warm golden 
walls bathed in the afternoon sun. They paused 
there on the piazza to look at St. Peter’s, and then 
followed their uncle along the Via Venti Settembre. 
Julian was very thoughtful and silent, and hardly 
said a word. He envied Geoffrey’s light-hearted- 
ness, the eagerness with which he seemed to approach 
this new and fearful experience. 

“Which of us will go first?” inquired Geoffrey. 

Father Parmeter looked down upon the two boys 
from his great height. 

“Julian will, of course. He’s the elder.” 

Julian felt his heart sink again. He began to 
wish that his mother had accompanied them, to 
whisper a few words of encouragement. It was 
odd that she hadn’t come. 

He had sometimes gone with his mother when she 
went to confession, had waited sitting or kneeling in 
the church while she slipped into one of the dark 
boxes where he could only see her figure half lost in 
the shadows while her face was hidden from him. 
He had sometimes wondered at her calm, the absence 
of effort that characterized her on those occasions. 
He had sometimes said to himself, as a child will 
when contemplating some difficult situation or ex- 
perience : “This can never happen to me.” And 
now it was actually coming. Julian pinched his own 
arm to make sure that he was not dreaming as he 
followed his uncle into the church where Father 
Benedict was to be found. 

“Now kneel down, and make your act of contrition 
and say the Confiteor/^ said Father Parmeter, in his 
matter-of-fact voice, “and think once more what you 
have to say. While you are preparing I’ll go and 
find Father Benedict.” 


70 


EUNICE 


Julian and Geoffrey knelt down on the two prie- 
dieus and began to do as he had bidden them. It 
was not very easy for Julian, for now that the time 
had actually come, a kind of sick nervousness took 
possession of him. He trembled as he knelt there ; 
once he longed to get up and run away. It was no 
use to try to be brave when one wasn’t brave. 
Cowards couldn’t help being cowards. He glanced 
at Geoffrey, who was calmly occupied with his prep- 
aration, was even studying a little book which 
Father Parmeter had given to him, with a sang-froid 
that bewildered Julian. But they would soon be 
coming — and he was not ready. He stumbled 
through the Confiteor, and tried to remember the 
short act of contrition which he had lately learned. 
But did he really feel any kind of contrition? He 
felt nothing in the world but this miserable sense of 
blinding, trembling terror. He couldn’t repeat all 
that dreadful story of his own disobedience. In his 
misery he began to cry, very softly, lest Geoffrey 
should overhear. The tears dropped, hot and thick, 
between his fingers. 

He was struggling to control himself and so 
absorbed in this apparently hopeless task that he 
never heard the two priests come into the church. 
Suddenly he felt a sharp touch on the shoulder and 
his uncle’s voice said: “Are you ready now? Father 
Benedict is waiting.” 

Julian rose to his feet; he felt himself sway a little. 
Father Parmeter, noticing the white face with its 
traces of tears, took him by the hand and led him 
towards the confessional. 

“Go in and kneel down,” he said in a firm, kind 
voice. 

Then he himself went back to the prie-dieu where 
lately Julian had been kneeling and knelt down. 

There was a deep silence in the church. Only a 


EUNICE 


71 


few people were walking about, gazing idly at the 
pictures, the beautiful jewel-like marbles, the baroque 
decorations. Sometimes a faint, sibilant whisper 
sounded from the confessional. It seemed to Geof- 
frey a very long time before his brother reappeared 
with head erect. He looked at him with a curious 
scrutiny, as if he expected to find him subtly changed. 
Julian was very pale; he looked nervous, a little 
shaken, and yet immensely relieved. Geoffrey 
sprang up from his seat and took his place in the 
confessional. Julian knelt down by his uncle’s side 
and made his thanksgiving. 

But there was not one detail of that past adventure 
that he had not faithfully recounted. There had 
been nothing else very salient in his life to tell except 
that one offence. Something — a great weight — had 
been lifted from his heart. Had it really gone away 
forever? Would it never torment him again? 

One thing was quite certain. God had forgiven 
him. 


CHAPTER VIII 

I T was on the following morning that Mrs. Par- 
meter found an envelope on her writing-table, 
addressed to her in Julian’s handwriting. It was 
marked Private. She smiled as she opened it, re- 
alizing that he was already, like his father, finding it 
easier to write a difficult thing than to speak it. But 
as she read the smile faded from her face. 

Jje * * 

“Father Benedict says I ort to tell you. [Julian’s 
spelling was still phonetic.] Of course he can’t 
make me. He says it would be more purfick if I 
did. I saw Baby Sister after she was dead. I 
wanted to see if she had got wings and whether she 


72 


EUNICE 


was still in the spare room or had flown away to 
heaven. She hadn’t got any wings and she was 
funny and cold and frightened me. I am sorry. 
I’d like father not to no. Forgive me please. I no 
God was angry for he made me very ill. Don’t 
please stop loving me now you no. Ju.” 

* * * 

So that was what had been on his mind for two 
years — for more than two years. Preying perhaps 
on his mind. She didn’t like to think of all that he 
had suffered; it hurt her. Could a little child of 
six, tenderly cherished, really keep a cruel and tor- 
menting secret for more than two years? And why 
had he been afraid to tell them? They had never 
been in the least severe with their children, and she 
had always been there to stand between them and the 
brief, swift, irascible anger of Norman. Yet it was 
certainly Norman whom Julian had feared. That 
“I’d like father not to know,” explained a good deal 
of what was on the surface so puzzling, so mysti- 
fying. 

“More perfect!” she said aloud. “You poor 
little darling baby.” 

She couldn’t bear even now to think he had seen 
death alone, for the first time, without any one by 
his side to soften its terror for him. No doubt the 
scene had frightened him, that vision of little Baby 
Sister, lying white and frozen in her cradle. It 
accounted for the complete wrecking of his nervous 
system, which she had always attributed to his illness 
and fiom which he was only now slowly recovering. 
The illness was what he had alluded to when he told 
her that God had punished him. He had accepted 
that as a just retribution, and she remembered his 
extpordinary patience, his sweetness, his uncom- 
plaining submission to all painful or disagreeable 


EUNICE 


73 


remedies and treatment. She had told people 
proudly that he was like a little saint. And all the 
time he had been consciously expiating what he knew 
to be a bad little sin of disobedience. He would 
never forget his little sister; all that episode must 
have burned itself into his brain. To Geoffrey she 
was already a memory, wrapped in remote mystery. 

“But when — when?” she thought to herself. 

She turned her mind back to those sad days, and 
she could think of no opportunity he had had for 
this rash satisfaction of a morbid curiosity. But he 
would talk to her — he would tell her more — now 
that the ice was broken. He would fill in the gaps. 
And then she would forgive him, comfort him. She 
didn’t want to tell Norman. It might give him the 
impression that Julian’s odd, unchildlike reticence hid 
a deceitful nature. He was often rough and a little 
abrupt in manner to Julian, never perfectly compre- 
hending him; and he would perhaps think that the 
boy ought still to be rebuked for that long-past act 
of disobedience. He would not realize what it had 
cost Julian to emerge from that crystallized reti- 
cence; what a breaking of delicate silences that 
were as ice about his heart. Yet the boy was so like 
him, in that fine exquisite sensibility of his ; it was a 
pity Norman did not try to understand him better. 

She sent Geoffrey up to bed first that night, as she 
sometimes did, when she wanted to have a longer 
talk with Julian alone. All that day she had only 
seen the children at meals, for Norman had been 
claiming her attention almost continuously. It had 
been something of an effort for her to comply, be- 
cause her thoughts were so full of Julian and she was 
longing to talk to him. In the afternoon she had 
driven with her husband to the Via Appia and thence 
they had taken a long walk in the Campagna, only 
returning when the May dusk was beginning to fall. 


74 


EUNICE 


There would be very little time to talk to Julian this 
evening but she couldn’t let him go to bed without a 
word. Geoffrey was disappointed at being dismissed 
so quickly; he was a little inclined to rebel. Mrs. 
Parmeter, seeing the white, wretched look on Julian’s 
face, said almost sharply: “Go quickly, Geoffrey.” 

When he had gone she pulled Julian close to her 
and kissed him, pushing back his thick brown hair 
with her hand. He began to sob, perhaps from 
relief to learn through these signs that she was not 
angry. When he was calmer she questioned him in 
her cold, restraining voice, that seemed to impose 
self-control. The story came out little by little. 
How he had gone in the middle of the night to look 
at Baby Sister, obeying an impulse of curiosity that 
was certainly morbid but not altogether unnatural. 
She could remember feeling that intense curiosity 
about death herself when she was much older than 
Julian. It would have been far wiser to have taken 
the boys to see their little sister, but Norman had 
repudiated the idea; he was afraid of infection. 

“But Julian, dear, I wish you had told me. I 
don’t like to think you’ve hidden anything from me 
for two years.” 

“It was the only time. And I tried to be good 
to make up,” said Julian. His dark eyes brooded 
solemnly. 

“But you had a dreadful, sly little secret poisoning 
all your thoughts.” 

“Yes,” he agreed. 

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to tell it and face 
the punishment?” 

He looked again white and suffering. 

“I was afraid. You see it was a big double sin.” 

“But Ju, darling, you must never be afraid of me !” 

“It wasn’t you. It was father — it was his eyes I” 

“His eyes?” She was puzzled. 


EUNICE 


75 


“Yes. When they have sparks in them.” 

“But you mustn’t be afraid of father, either, 
Julian. You have no reason to be.” 

“It was him I disobeyed,” said Julian, thought- 
fully. 

“Ju, darling, I wish you’d told me long ago. Oh, 
I should have forgiven you. Think how ill you 
were. And you’ve been punished by your own con- 
science — more than punished for hiding it for so 
long. We won’t talk about it any more.” 

She comforted him again, taking him on her knee, 
kissing him, smoothing back the ruffled brown hair. 
In the midst of the little scene Norman came abruptly 
into the room. 

“Why, I thought you were alone, Ivy. Why 
isn’t that brat in bed?” 

He looked at Julian, at his white face with its 
signs of recent tears, and at his wife with her shin- 
ing eyes holding the boy in her arms. 

“What’s he been doing now?” he asked. 

“We’ve been having a little talk, Ju and I,” she 
said putting the boy from her and standing up. 

“Has he been naughty?” Norman’s suspicions 
were oddly aroused; he often had the vague notion 
that she was hiding Julian’s delinquencies from him. 

“He — he is quite good, Norman,” said Ivy trem- 
ulously, “and he’s going to try to keep good. 
Aren’t you, Julian? Say good night to father, dear, 
and run along to bed.” 

The child timidly approached Norman, holding 
up his face. Mr. Parmeter stooped and kissed him 
and then gave him a little not unkindly push. “Be 
off to bed. Sharp now!” he said in his dictatorial 
tone. 

When Julian had gone out of the room Norman 
turned to his wife with that slight air of zealous dis- 
trustfulness that she disliked so much. 


76 


EUNICE 


“You’re bringing up that boy much too soft,” he 
said, “you’ll make him more like a girl than a boy. 
He must go to school. Why don’t you tell me what 
he’s been doing? What’s all the mystery about?” 

“I was only having a little talk with him — about 
something that happened a long time ago. Some- 
thing he had said in confession. I wanted to have 
a talk with him to-night, so I sent Geoffrey to bed 
early on purpose.” 

“You and your Ju !” He smiled half bitterly. 

All the evening he was a little restless, as if sus- 
pecting some reticence on her part regarding Julian. 

These little things had a more far-reaching effect 
upon Norman Parmeter. Fond as he was of his 
Roman home, he had never come thither, as so many 
did, with the deliberate intention of expatriating him- 
self altogether. He made the journey to London 
occasionally to see his publishers, but Ivy refused to 
accompany him unless he permitted her to bring the 
children, and this he had always declined to do. So 
that his visits home had been necessarily brief, for 
he could not bear to be long parted from Ivy. He 
still loved her in that adoring, jealous, possessive 
way which at last she had learned to understand; 
though sometimes in the early days of their marriage 
— especially just after the arrival of the twins, when 
he felt his position threatened — had sometimes made 
her sufficiently unhappy. He had the restless, 
nervous, poet’s temperament, and he led the often 
idle life of the man whose work waits upon inspira- 
tion. As he was very well off, there was no real 
necessity for him to work at all. There were so few 
thorns in her path; she was, on the face of it, so 
enormously happy that she was rather inclined to dis- 
regard the little twist in his character that sometimes 
made things not quite smooth. When he was angry 
with either of the boys, especially with Julian, she 


EUNICE 


11 


always tried to keep him from manifesting it, because 
she knew it was the result of his own jealousy rather 
than of any naughtiness on the part of the children. 
She was devoted to her husband, understood and 
forgave him. These little difficulties arose from 
his too absorbing devotion to herself, and therefore 
she was the more readily able to forgive and over- 
look them. It was only her great tenderness for 
Julian that ever aroused her impatience with Nor- 
man’s attitude — an impatience that she always con- 
cealed from him. 

That very night, however, he spoke to her on the 
subject of leaving Rome and going back to Brighton. 
The tenants who occupied their house in Brunswick 
Terrace were leaving it during the summer; their 
lease was up and they had notified that they did not 
wish to renew it. Norman came to the sudden con- 
clusion that it was quite time the boys were sent to 
school. A day-school at first for a term or two, and 
afterward to a big preparatory school. Julian was 
atrociously, shamefully backward. Geoffrey would 
make far more rapid progress if he were to work 
with cleverer, more brilliant boys than himself. 
There was no doubt that Julian kept his brother 
back. At school they would find their own level. 
Mrs. Parmeter listened silently. She knew the truth 
of these arguments; she knew, too, by Norman’s 
manner that he had been considering the matter care- 
fully and that his mind was made up. Perhaps she 
had precipitated things a little by her injudicious pet- 
ting of Julian. He had come upon herself and the 
boy just at the close of an emotional little scene; it 
was a pity, but there was no help for it. 

“You must admit. Ivy, that Julian’s health has 
derived all the benefit he’s likely to get from a 
southern climate,” continued Norman, who always 
liked to anticipate any arguments Ivy might adduce 


EUNICE 


78 

against a proposed plan. “He’s getting a bit slack 
and the Brighton air will brace him up. And I’m 
beginning to want to get back to all my books. 
After all, we’re only strangers and pilgrims here.” 

Ivy had loved every hour of her sojourn in Rome. 
She believed, too, that it had taught the boys many 
things which they would never have derived from the 
ordinary routine of school-work. But there was 
reason on Norman’s side. Geoffrey especially was 
in need of school discipline. She said quietly : 

“I think you are right, Norman. I should rather 
like to have waited till next winter, when the boys 
will be nine.” 

“Nonsense — they’re getting awfully out of hand 
as it is,” said Norman, with a touch of irritability. 
“It’s time they went to school. I think we’ll give up 
this place as soon as we can, and go home. We 
should have to leave Rome for the summer in any 
case, so we might just as well make one move of it.” 

“Very well, Norman,” said Ivy. 

He glanced at her as she sat there working, the 
light from a rose-shaded electric lamp falling on her 
dark brown hair. She generally had some soft 
white work in her hands, and he liked to see the 
skilful and sure way in which the needle performed 
its task under that delicate guidance. She looked 
very young and very pretty and hardly altered from 
the day he had married her. 

He put out his hand and touched hers. 

“You don’t hate the idea, do you, darling?” he 
said half wistfully. 

She smiled. 

“Of course I don’t hate it, Norman. For some 
reasons I shall be glad to go home, and to live among 
our own things again. And Julian is getting quite 
strong. I don’t suppose he’ll ever be quite as strong 
as Geoffrey.” 


EUNICE 


79 


“My dear,” said Norman, “I think Julian would 
be all the better if you didn’t fuss over him quite so 
much. He must learn to be active and hardy. 
You’re spoiling the boy, you know.” 

“When do you think of going, Norman?” she 
asked, paying no attention to his last speech. 

“Well, I thought I could get off at the end of the 
month and see about putting the house to rights in 
Brighton, and then you could follow in June. Then 
the boys can go to school in September.” 

“Very well, Norman,” said Ivy. 

“It’s absurd to live so long abroad,” continued 
Norman, “a man gets so out of touch with things at 
home. My sales are falling off, and I’m convinced 
it’s because I’m not there to look after things. I 
always intended to be in England when ‘A Vision of 
Saints’ goes to press.” 

“Yes,” said Ivy, this time a little absently. She 
was thinking of Julian and of all the difference it 
would make to him. 


CHAPTER IX 

T he return to Brighton was effected as Norman 
had proposed early in the summer, and by July 
they were so completely settled again in the old 
house in Brunswick Terrace that it almost seemed 
as if they had never left it. Certain changes, how- 
ever, had been made. The boys, being bigger, re- 
quired a place to themselves— a school-room that 
could also be used as a play-room — -and the old 
nursery with its three big windows looking out on to 
the sea was selected for this purpose. Two little 
rooms on the same landing were given to them as 
bed-rooms; while nurse, whose occupation would 


8o 


EUNICE 


assuredly soon be gone, slept in a third room close at 
hand. Norman had his old study at the top of the 
house, a spacious attic also overlooking the sea. 
He spent many days when they first arrived unpack- 
ing his books and arranging his papers and having 
new shelves and book-cases introduced, in very per- 
fect contentment. Mrs. Parmeter began to think 
she was really the only one of the family who 
regretted Rome at all. And she regretted it almost 
passionately, and longed for the brilliant summer 
days which they had left behind in their full glory. 
During those first weeks of aching nostalgia she 
would have given almost everything she possessed 
for one glimpse of the beautiful Alban hills painted 
in such soft, delicate and harmonious tones against 
the sky, with the wide, pale Campagna lying out at 
their feet like the sea. 

They slipped back into old habits. On Sundays 
after Mass they walked on the bright, emerald- 
colored Hove lawns, the twins going on ahead 
sedately. They saw many people they knew and 
sometimes stopped to talk to them. Norman often 
met also men whom he knew in London, and who 
were acquainted with his work. He had a great 
many friends in the world of artists and writers. 
That was the kind of life he had missed a little in 
Rome; a writer was at this disadvantage with an 
artist in a foreign country, that he found fewer 
people to read and understand and appreciate his 
work, whereas an artist could always command the 
sympathy and criticism of his fellow-painters, 
whether he knew their language or not. Ivy was 
always glad for Norman’s sake when one of these 
London authors or journalists would come up and 
begin to talk to him easily and naturally about his 
work, and ask him when the next book was coming 
out. ^ 


EUNICE 


8i 


One Sunday when they were thus walking Julian 
said suddenly : 

“Oh, Mummy — there’s Eunice ! May I go and 
speak to her?’’ 

Sitting on two chairs and watching the passing 
throng with attentive eyes were Mrs. Dampier and 
her little girl. Mrs. Dampier was looking quite 
charming. Already the English air had brought 
some of the color back to her face; her fair hair 
looked brilliant in the strong sharp sunshine, and she 
wore a pretty frock of very delicate grey. Some of 
the restless discontent had gone out of her face. 
She smiled and looked pleased as the Parmeters 
approached. Geoffrey was the only one who hung 
back a little, for Eunice was still associated in his 
mind with tempestuous, disagreeable scenes. 

There were questions to be asked, and Mr. Par- 
meter, who had somehow never seen either Mrs. 
Dampier or her little girl in Rome, was rather taken 
with the slight, pretty woman with the large, unquiet 
grey eyes. But Eunice was frankly overjoyed to 
see Julian again. She sprang up and ran toward 
him with outstretched hand. Where did he live? 
At that big white house over there? Could he 
really see the sea from his windows? They couldn’t 
see the sea at all from where they lived — the house 
was quite up at the back. In a few minutes the two 
children were talking as if they had never been 
parted. Geoffrey, standing near his parents, 
watched them with an expression of disgust on his 
small, chubby face. Why was Ju making such a fuss 
about that horrid little girl? 

They were invited to tea on the following day at 
the big house in Brunswick Terrace. They all 
walked as far as the Parmeters’ abode together on 
their homeward way. 

“I hope you think Eunice has improved,” said 


82 


EUNICE 


Mrs. Dampier, as they stood there on the pavement 
before saying good-by. “She isn’t nearly such a 
little savage as she used to be. I’ve found a very 
good governess for her, who keeps her in tremen- 
dous order. The ayah’s gone back, I’m thankful 
to say.” . _ . . 

She still had the habit of criticizing Eunice in 
front of the child, which Mrs. Parmeter thought 
must be so bad for her. But Eunice was accustomed 
to it, and though her small face grew a trifle harder 
in expression she made no comment. 

“Do you really think of settling in Brighton?” 
asked Mrs. Parmeter. 

“It depends on Herbert. I never know, of 
course, how soon he may take it into his head to send 
for us. He hates me to be happy away from him.” 

“He said he missed me very much in his last 
letter,” said Eunice. “I know he wants me to go 
back, and I shall be glad to go to India. It is ten 
times nicer than Brighton.” 

“Well, you won’t be asked, in any case,” said Mrs. 
Dampier. 

“She’s a pretty woman and I should say a very 
discontented one. Ivy,” said Norman, after they 
had gone into the house. “She’s not at all your 
sort. How did you come to know her?” 

“Oh, I met her one day at the Millwards’, and 
then the children played together in the Borghese 
Gardens. I didn’t see much of her, but Eunice and 
Julian made friends.” 

Norman said no more and soon forgot about Mrs. 
Dampier, although he appeared in the drawing-room 
when she came to tea on the following day. She 
talked a great deal and was amusing in a sharp, half- 
malicious way. 

The sight of the large, airy, luxurious house filled 


EUNICE 


83 


her with the same bitter envy as the Roman apart- 
ment had done. It was more evident to her than 
ever that the Parmeters were rich people, who could 
have everything they might desire for themselves 
and their children. She learned with some surprise 
that they were Catholics and she supposed that this 
accounted in some measure for the rather quiet life 
they seemed to prefer. 

“How perfect it must be for you, always having 
a settled home where you can all be together,’’ she 
said, with a pathetic lifting of her eyes to Mr. Par- 
meter. She found it much easier to deceive men 
than women on certain points. 

“Well, we’ve been exiles so long that I think we 
appreciate it more than ever,’’ he said. 

^And you find you can work as well here as you 
did in Rome? I always think environment must 
make such a difference to a — a poet.’’ 

“Oh, I’ve done the greater part of my work in 
Brighton,’’ he answered. 

He disliked speaking about his work to people 
unless he knew them very well. 

“How wonderful it must be ! Aren’t you awfully 
proud of him, Mrs. Parmeter?’’ 

Mrs. Parmeter looked up and laughed. 

“I’ve never thought much about it,’’ she said in 
her careless way. 

“My wife sees poems in the making,’’ he ex- 
plained. 

“Do you think either of your boys will take after 
you?” was her next question. 

“Indeed, I hope not I” said Norman Parmeter. 
“I should severely discourage anything of the kind. 
We want them to adopt active professions — the 
army and the navy if possible I” 

“Oh, don’t let them go into the army. It’s such 
an uncomfortable life. I didn’t realize what it 


84 


EUNICE 


meant when I married Herbert. He’s been used to 
it all his life, and so he can never understand my 
feelings, and he gets quite angry when I complain of 
being uncomfortable. But then moving always falls 
heaviest on the woman, she has to see to the packing 
up, and making the place look nice.” She sighed. 

Upstairs in the school-room Julian was very 
happy. After tea he sat by the window talking to 
Eunice. She liked to watch the crowds of people 
moving along the green lawns and on the grey sea- 
front beyond. She felt that she could never tire of 
this amusement. Geoffrey, a little sulky at his 
brother’s preoccupation with their guest, sat at the 
big table playing with his soldiers. He always pre- 
ferred to play rather than to talk, and of course it 
would be useless to ask a silly girl like Eunice to 
come and play soldiers with him. He wondered 
that Julian should care to sit and listen to the stupid 
things she said. Geoffrey was beginning to despise 
girls, and he disliked the feeling of being a little 
left out. 

When they were sent for to go down to the draw- 
ing-room they found Mrs. Dampier on the point of 
departure. She was affectionate in manner to 
Eunice this afternoon, as if she wanted to counter- 
act any impression of harshness that Mrs. Parmeter 
might still retain after the unfortunate episode in 
Rome. And poets, she reflected, were almost al- 
ways sentimental about children. In her hand she 
was carrying two little books bound in pale grey 
boards which Mr. Parmeter had somewhat reluc- 
tantly lent to her; she had been very persistent in 
assuring him of her anxiety to know his work better. 

On the whole she was well pleased with her visit. 
Although no one else had been there, she felt that in 
some way the Parmeters were important people, 
even though they went out so little in Brighton. One 


EUNICE 


85 


or two of her friends had expressed surprise at her 
knowing them, and she had enjoyed being able to 
answer : “Oh, I met them in Rome last spring.” 

Now when she said good-by to Mrs. Parmeter she 
said in her softest voice : “It’s so good of you to let 
my little Eunice play with your boys. She’s such a 
wild little thing — and I’m sure they will have a good 
influence over her.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that!” said Norman 
with a laugh. “But if she likes to come I’m sure 
we’re all delighted to have her.” 

“It must be lovely having a settled — religion,” 
said Mrs. Dampier, “something you can really feel 
quite sure about — as I’m told you Catholics do feel 
about your religion. I wish Herbert cared more 
about such things — he’s quite discouraging.” Again 
she sighed. She felt that life must really be so very 
easy for Mrs. Parmeter, a simple following of a 
beaten track, but in an extremely comfortable, 
opulent manner that obviated any possible fatigue 
or mortification. 

Mrs. Parmeter said quietly: 

“Our boys have still got a lot to learn about their 
religion. They’re really only just beginning. We 
mean to send them to a Catholic school in the 
autumn.” She lightly touched Geoffrey’s yellow 
head. 

“Eunice hardly knows how to say her prayers. I 
must tell her governess to teach her some,” said 
Mrs. Dampier. “I’ve given up taking her to church 
with me — she fidgets so.” 

Eunice colored deeply. She felt ashamed that 
her ignorance should be thus exposed. When they 
were out in the street she turned to her mother quite 
passionately. 

“Why did you tell them I didn’t know my prayers? 


86 EUNICE 

Why don’t you teach me some if you want me to 
know them?” 

Mrs. Dampier was for the moment taken aback 
by this sudden outburst. 

“I advise you not to speak to me like that, 
Eunice,” she said, in a cold, threatening voice. 

Eunice relapsed into silence. Still, it was very 
hard that she should be blamed for not knowing 
things which she had never been taught. She was 
afraid that when Julian really learned how ignorant 
she was that he would despise her. This thought 
had the effect of making her so assiduous at her 
lessons during the days that followed that Miss 
Jones, her governess, was able to report at last that 
her progress was perfectly satisfactory. 

* * 5 |« 

Mrs. Dampier soon began to lead a very animated 
existence in Brighton. She went out a great deal, 
to lunch, to tea, to dinner. She had quite a large 
circle of friends, and was in constant request at 
bridge-parties. Those were the days before auction- 
bridge had superseded the old game, which so few 
remember now. Mrs. Dampier was a good player, 
but as a rule she held bad cards, and she certainly 
“dropped” more than she quite liked, for she was 
already spending a great deal of money. She was 
always very well dressed now in soft, delicate colors 
— here she followed quite consciously the very sure 
taste of Mrs. Parmeter — and they certainly set off 
the pallor of her skin and hair. People were al- 
ready beginning to talk about that pretty Mrs. Dam- 
pier, whose husband was in India. Others were a 
trifle shocked at what they called her goings on, for 
she had already attached one or two young men to 
her train and was often to be seen walking and driv- 
ing with them. Eunice was much happier, for she 


EUNICE 


87 

saw but little of her mother, and now seldom came 
into collision with her. Miss Jones, who was young 
and companionable, took a fancy to the child and 
they became friends. Eunice was really docile with 
her, and her naughty fits grew rarer; and when Miss 
Jones discovered the consequences that ensued when 
they were reported to Mrs. Dampier she took pity 
on the child and held her peace about them. Eunice 
was a little astonished when she found that Miss 
Jones never told her mother of her delinquencies, 
but it increased her devotion to her. Often on their 
walks they met Geoffrey and Julian and joined them, 
sometimes going down to the beach or on to the pier 
with them. They liked to go to the very end of the 
pier and look down at the green water moving below 
the iron steps. It was a disappointment to them 
that they were not allowed to go down the steps, but 
this was considered too dangerous. They might 
fall in, and then who was going to jump in and pull 
them out? — nurse would inquire in that tone of 
crushing superiority and omniscience which made 
Julian and Geoffrey feel very small people indeed. 
It is true that Eunice, eluding the vigilance of Miss 
Jones, did succeed in running down to the very bot- 
tom of them one day, and was only brought back 
after a prolonged and heated struggle. 

“Why did you go, Eunice? She’s sure to tell 
your mother.” Julian could never understand 
Eunice’s wilful rebellions; they seemed so purpose- 
less. 

“Oh, no, she won’t,” said Eunice, “she’s not a 
sneak. I’ll say that for her.” She glanced carelessly 
at Miss Jones, who was out of earshot. 

Julian had always loved the sea. Even when he 
was quite a little boy he would creep under the 
shadow of the breakwaters while the other children 
were playing, seeming to watch them but in reality 


88 


EUNICE 


absorbed in contemplating the sea. That was be- 
fore the journey to Rome, but even now he slipped 
back quite naturally into the old ways. “It says 
things to me — it makes me think,” he told his mother 
one day when she questioned him. “It makes my 
head feel alive.” And once he added: “It sings. 
Not always, but sometimes. It sings not only sounds 
but words/* He would frown then, and look 
puzzled, as if the very uttering of his thoughts made 
them elusive and unreal. 

But Mrs. Parmeter understood. It was the stir- 
ring of imagination — perhaps a poet’s imagination 
— the first inception of the creative gift. She wished 
he could have told her more, but she did not press 
him. Perhaps he could not well express in concrete 
terms those strange words that the sea sang to him. 

Now, when he sat there, unwilling to play on those 
hot summer evenings, Eunice often came and joined 
him. He was enchanted with the beauty of the 
scene and said very little ; his mind was quietly occu- 
pied gathering impressions. The sea was colored 
like milk, and when the sun set behind Worthing 
both sea and sand, as well as the flaming sky, became 
touched to brilliant tones of rose-pink and gold. 
The trawlers beyond the pier, with their heavy, 
somnolent-looking red sails that scarcely stirred in 
the breeze, were reflected in deep purple tones in the 
pale water. Sometimes the little steamer that left 
the pier at intervals throughout the day to take 
passengers for an hour’s trip, went by; sometimes a 
collier, like a black smudge low in the water, passed 
on its way to Shoreham. The stony beach dipped 
down, not to blue sea, but to a long and wide stretch 
of sand, ribbed and golden, with wonderful little 
pools shining here and there like fairy lakes. Every- 
thing then was full of light, brilliant, colored light, 
that flooded the sky and the sands and the sea. 


EUNICE 


89 

They were all like cups filled to overflowing with it, 
yet thirstily drinking up more and more of its shining 
splendor. The sea sang no songs to him then; its 
only sound was where it touched the sand with a 
faint lisping whisper. It wanted, Julian felt, to 
share the silence of the sky, dumb with its own 
beauty. When Geoffrey called to him to come and 
help him build a fortress in the sand he would go 
reluctantly as if only half awake. 

Yet all the time he had been aware of Geoffrey, 
of that sturdy, bare-legged figure with the sunburned 
face and chest and powerful little arms. Always in 
after life he could visualize that lithe, leaping figure 
with its yellow hair and eyes as blue as the sea. 

Thus the summer passed very pleasantly to the 
three children, and even Geoffrey grew accustomed 
to having Eunice so constantly with them that she 
almost seemed like a little sister. Still, she was 
always Julian’s friend, not his. These things are 
clearly defined in the nursery. And it was Julian 
who used to tiy sometimes to picture what it would 
be like when Eunice vanished with her mother and 
returned to the father she adored in India. But 
here imagination failed him and the effort was such 
a painful one that he wisely renounced it. 

Eunice spoke so lightly of going away, quite as if 
she would have no regret at all at leaving them. 
She wanted, she said, to go back to her father. She 
liked India much better than Brighton. She had a 
pony to ride, and she liked riding with her father in 
the early morning. She was a roving, restless little 
mortal, and her lot was cast in places that Julian 
could form no mental picture of at all. Eunice’s 
own memories of India were exceedingly sketchy, 
and she could really give him no very definite idea 
of it. When he pressed her she said she couldn’t 
remember. 


90 


EUNICE 


“Fm sure you can If you try,” said Julian. 

But Eunice shook back her rebellious gipsy curls. 
“You silly boy,” she said. “If I say I can’t, I 
can’t 1” 


CHAPTER X 

J ULIAN, on looking back upon the complete picture 
of his childhood, which often in later years would 
seem to him rather like an overlong, overelaborated 
motion-picture play, could always tell the date of 
the inception of those profound changes which 
seemed to impose themselves so suddenly on their 
steady uneventful life. 

It was the day when he was not very well, was 
suffering from a cold that made his mother deem it 
wiser to keep him indoors, although not in bed. 
The day was cold, for it was then October, and 
Geoffrey had to go for the afternoon walk without 
him. 

Mrs. Parmeter brought Julian down to the back 
drawing-room, and he lay on the sofa covered up 
with rugs beside a generous fire of coal and logs of 
wood. A table with some books and picture-papers 
was placed near him, but his cold had made him 
drowsy and a little feverish, and he did not feel 
inclined to read. Sometimes Mrs. Parmeter came 
In to look at him, to make up the fire, or to bring 
him something cool to drink. 

As he lay there he was suddenly aroused by a 
sound of footsteps on the stairs, then the door was 
opened and he heard a rustle of silken skirts and a 
voice exclaimed: 

“Dear Mrs. Parmeter — I’ve come to ask your 
advice. I’ve had a most disturbing letter from 
Herbert I” 


EUNICE 


91 


It was Mrs. Dampier’s voice, and Julian quickly 
recognized it, although he could not see her, for the 
heavy curtains were drawn between the two rooms 
to-day to keep the draught from him. 

He had heard so much of Major Dampier from 
Eunice, who worshipped the father whose memory 
was now growing a little dim, that he had formed a 
wonderful mental picture of him. Sometimes when 
she spoke to him he would visualize a marvelous 
prince-like figure clad in armor, confusing him with 
all his favorite heroes, Alfred the Great, Richard 
Coeur de Lion, and the Black Prince. Sometimes it 
would be a man in a resplendent uniform with 
medals on his breast, riding the grey charger of 
which Eunice had spoken. But when Mrs. Dampier 
spoke of “Herbert” in a light, contemptuous tone he 
felt almost indignant, because it seemed as if she 
had dimmed some of those shining qualities with 
which his imagination had invested this man, whom 
he had never seen, so that his idol became for the 
moment less glorious. 

He heard his mother make a conventional reply, 
and then say: • 

“But do tell me what has happened?” 

“He knows I am always ill in India,” said Mrs. 
Dampier, in quite a shrill, angry voice. “And I 
can’t take Eunice back — she’s too old to be left to 
ayahs and native servants, and English nurses are 
such an expense!” 

“Do you mean that Major Dampier wants you 
to go back to India?” said Mrs. Parmeter, very 
quietly. 

As he listened to the two women talking, without 
being able to see their faces, Julian could picture 
exactly how his mother looked. Very quiet, and 
calm, and as if she must be older and wiser, although 


92 


EUNICE 


she was several years younger than Mrs. Dampier 
and looked almost like a girl beside her. 

“He has left me no choice at all!” cried Mrs. 
Dampier in still shriller and more indignant tones. 
“He says I am to go not later than next month. He 
is so stingy — that is what is the matter with him — 
and he won’t afford the expense of keeping up two 
houses. Of course, if I were only independent I 
should laugh in his face.” 

Julian felt somehow that his mother would not 
approve of this kind of talk; she would look quietly 
disapproving, but patient, as she did when Geoffrey 
was obstinately naughty. 

He could almost see her sitting there on the sofa, 
very motionless, with her hands in her lap. 

“Indeed I should laugh now — if it were not for 
Eunice. I have simply heaps of friends with whom 
I could stay, but one can’t drag a child about.” 
There was something like a challenge now in that 
high-pitched, clear voice. “Children tie you so, 
don’t they, Mrs. Parmeter? I’m sure I never 
wanted one I It’s so different for you, with plenty 
of money and a lovely home and a husband who 
doesn’t ask you to do impossible thirfgs. But I soon 
found out how utterly selfish Herbert was. It was 
a very bitter disillusion, I can tell you.” 

“Oh, but can’t you really take Eunice back with 
you ? Lots of children — especially little girls — stay 
in India now until they are eight. Why don’t you 
take Miss Jones? She seems such a nice girl. . . ” 

There was a note of protest in Mrs. Parmeter’s 
gentle, reasonable voice. It would be terrible, she 
felt, to choose thus between husband and child. To 
choose, for instance, between Norman — and Julian. 

“My dear Mrs. Parmeter, you’ve no. idea what a 
bore it would be. She would probably get engaged 
on the voyage out and leave me in the lurch at 


EUNICE 


93 


Bombay. It happens in nine cases out of ten. No, 
I shall certainly leave Eunice behind, if it’s only to 
punish Herbert. And if I take her I should have no 
excuse for coming home next year in the hot weather. 
Herbert is perfectly brutal and more selfish than you 
can imagine. He knows I am happy here and have 
heaps of friends, and he hates to think I am enjoying 
myself away from him. He says I spend too much 
and he has sent me a miserable cheque for my outfit 
and passage. I shall arrive in India with two frocks 
and one pair of shoes and the hats I’ve been wearing 
all the summer.” 

“But where shall you leave Eunice?” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. “She’s too young to go to school. Have 
you any relations who can take her?” 

She suddenly remembered that she had never 
heard Mrs. Dampier allude to any relations of her 
own. She always said, however, that she didn’t hit 
it off with her husband’s people. 

“I’ve one sister, but I couldn’t possibly ask her to 
have her,” said Mrs. Dampier, “she’s married to 
a parson in a northern manufacturing town, and 
they’ve got swarms of children of their own and 
hardly any money.” 

Mrs. Parmeter felt as if her own little trials 
seemed by contrast trivial and unimportant. Nor- 
man’s queer transitory jealousy of his gifted little 
son, Julian’s odd way of brooding secretly, Geof- 
frey’s occasional fits of stormy rebellion — nothing 
really of any gravity. 

“Have you made any plans for leaving here?” 
she asked. 

“No, Herbert has made them all. He’s settled 
on the steamer — it goes next month and it’s horribly 
small and poky. He might at least have let me 
travel by P & O. He’s done that on purpose — he 


94 EUNICE 

is always jealous and suspicious, and afraid that I 
shall enjoy myself.” 

“You haven’t much time, then, to make arrange- 
ments for Eunice,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

Her heart ached with compassion for the un- 
wanted little girl, who seemed also to be a bone of 
contention between her parents. 

“No, and I simply can’t think what on earth to 
do with her. Unless — ” There was a pause dur- 
ing which Julian, lying in the next room, held his 
breath to listen — “unless you can help me.” 

There was a long silence, during which Julian had 
time to grasp the fact that he was overhearing a 
real grown-up conversation, probably not intended 
for his ears at all. Mrs. Dampier sounded 
“naughty” in nursery parlance ; the passionate anger 
of her voice, the harsh things she said of another 
person, would certainly have been accounted naughty 
when judged by rigorous nursery standards. The 
heat of the fire, the delicious warmth and comfort 
which surrounded him, were beginning to make 
Julian feel a little drowsy, but the absorbing interest 
of the conversation kept him awake. He understood 
enough to assure himself that Eunice’s very future 
was at stake. She might go away from Brighton 
altogether; it might even be that she would return 
to India. 

At last he heard Mrs. Dampier say, in a changed 
rather strained voice, almost as if she found some 
difficulty in uttering the words: 

“Do you think you could possibly persuade Mr. 
Parmeter to let you have her here? You see, I 
know you, and she’s so fond of your little boys — 
and I feel that she would be happy here.” 

It sounded almost like the voice in which you 
prayed. . . Perhaps Mrs. Dampier had been pray- 
ing. His childish mind leaped to the conclusion that 


EUNICE 


95 


such a prayer could not be refused. Eunice would 
come here to live with them. They would see her 
every day — at walks, at meals. Nurse would put 
her to bed. Mummy would go in and tuck her up 
and kiss her good night. It was a wonderful pros- 
pect, and yet it made him feel timid and afraid. He 
would want always to be good if Eunice were there. 
He would hate her to see him quarreling with Geof- 
frey. And it wasn’t always easy to avoid quarrel- 
ing with Geoffrey in some of his moods. It was 
difficult to keep good all day — even for one day. 

“Of course, I know she’s a very troublesome 
child,’’ continued Mrs. Dampier, more fretfully. 
“It is because Herbert has spoiled her so, and he 
could never bear me to punish her. But she’s ever 
so much better since I’ve had her to myself and been 
able to whip her when it was necessary.’’ 

“I never whip my children,’’ said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“You must be more patient than I am, then,” said 
Mrs. Dampier, with a harsh little laugh. “Still, I 
should have thought boys were harder to manage 
than girls. Your Julian, for instance — he doesn’t 
look as if he would be an easy child to manage!” 

Mrs. Parmeter rose and quietly closed the door as 
if suddenly remembering that Julian was lying just 
beyond the heavy curtains that divided the two 
rooms and could probably hear a good deal that was 
being said. He was bitterly disappointed to think 
he would not now hear what was decided about 
Eunice. And the conversation was becoming every 
moment more thrillingly interesting; he longed to 
know what reply his mother would make to that last 
observation about himself. 

Then his mind traveled away from this more per- 
sonal issue, and he contemplated again the wonderful 
possibility of having Eunice to live with them. Quite 
alone, without her mother, perhaps even without 


EUNICE 


96 

Miss Jones. Would she be happy with them quite 
alone, without anybody who belonged to her? 
Would she miss Mrs. Dampier? But she would 
have Mummy instead. And Mummy would surely 
make up for many Mrs. Dampiers ! 

When Mrs. Parmeter had quietly closed the door 
she rang the bell for tea, and then went back to her 
seat on the sofa. This little action had provided 
her with breathing space, and now she was able 
coldly to consider this suggestion of Mrs. Dam- 
pier’s. To her it was so extraordinary as to be 
almost incredible that Mrs. Dampier should wish to 
leave Eunice in their care, regardless of the differ- 
ence in religion. It would have been an impossibility 
for Mrs. Parmeter to have left her own children in 
the care of Protestants should a hard fate have 
decreed that she must separate herself from them. 

Mrs. Dampier’s voice broke the silence on a shrill, 
harsh note. 

“I suppose you don’t care for the idea? Or do 
you feel that Mr. Parmeter would object? This is 
such a large house” — looking round the spacious, 
luxurious room half resentfully — “I’m sure Eunice 
would take up very little room. He would really 
hardly know there was another child in the house.” 

Mrs. Parmeter was one of those women who 
passionately love their own homes. She liked the 
hidden side of her life, the hours spent with husband 
and children, the beautiful seclusion of it. She had 
often hoped that it might go on in this way without 
change. Change, she felt, could easily bring suffer- 
ing. She had never even wished for more fame for 
Norman, because she felt that it might force them to 
come out more prominently into the world, thus 
losing something of the perfection of their life to- 
gether. And now she shrank from the thought of 
so unnecessary a change as this bringing of a little 


EUNICE 


97 


girl — almost a stranger to them — into their home. 
She felt that Eunice would almost inevitably take 
away something of its peace. Although she was 
only seven years old, she was a tempestuous, pas- 
sionate creature, undisciplined and wild. She might 
have a bad influence upon the twins, imbuing them 
with strange notions. She was a child who never 
hesitated to deceive her mother in order to avoid 
punishment. Even the boys had heard her lie and 
lie deliberately. If Mrs. Parmeter had been left to 
herself she would quite certainly have refused to 
take Eunice under her charge in this way. She tried 
to answer without betraying any signs of this dis- 
inclination. 

“I should have, of course, to think it over and con- 
sult Norman. He always settles everything,” she 
said. 

She gave her guest a cup of tea. Then she filled 
another cup, put some bread-and-butter and cake on 
a plate, and went toward the door. 

“Julian isn’t very well to-day. He’s lying down 
in the next room,” she explained. 

She took Julian his tea in that quietly maternal 
way of hers, solicitous without being in the least 
fussy or over-indulgent. Then she came back, clos- 
ing the door quietly after her, to the boy’s great dis- 
appointment. He had so hoped that she might for- 
get and leave it open. 

The sight of him, however, had made her sud- 
denly aware that Julian would be very happy if 
Eunice were to come to live with them. He was 
very fond of his little playmate.^ The question, how- 
ever, was not so much whether it would contribute to 
his happiness as whether it would be quite good for 
him in other respects. She had an idea that he 
might let himself be influenced by Eunice in curious, 
unexpected ways. 


98 


EUNICE 


“If you could persuade him, I can’t tell you how 
eternally grateful I should be,” said Mrs. Dampier. 
“If I were not so scared of him I should like to dis- 
cuss it with him myself. But he is far too clever 
for me.” 

Mrs. Parmeter never discussed her husband with 
other people, and she disliked even this casual criti- 
cism of him. Her loyalty had a delicate, fastidious 
quality. She never spoke of him easily, or said: 
“Norman says. Norman does.” . . She kept him, 
as it were, in a niche, never discussing him or his 
work unless she could not help it. 

Presently she said; 

“You have not forgotten, have you, that this is a 
Catholic house?” 

“Why what difference could that possibly make?” 
inquired Mrs. Dampier, in surprise. 

“Well, you see, it would mean that Eunice would 
be brought up in a Catholic atmosphere just at a 
very susceptible age. It would be impossible for us 
to keep her apart from Catholic influence. And 
then if anything happened — later on, when she grew 
older — and she wished to become a Catholic herself, 
you might blame us.” 

“Oh, I should never do that!” cried Mrs. Dam- 
pier eagerly, “I’m very broad-minded myself, and I 
always think one religion’s quite as good as another. 
I dare say if I had been brought up a Catholic myself 
I should have been quite a good one. But you 
needn’t be afraid of Eunice — she isn’t at all a pious 
child — and I had to insist upon Miss Jones’ teaching 
her to say some prayers. I believe she had quite 
a struggle with her at first. Besides, lots of people 
in India send their children home to convents to be 
educated. They find the nuns are so careful and 
conscientious and kind to them. I knew two girls 
who were brought up at a convent for years. One 


EUNICE 


99 


changed her religion and the other didn’t, but the 
parents didn’t mind at all. People learn to look at 
things differently in India. Quite a number of Eng- 
lish people become Buddhists and Theosophists out 
there, and hardly any one thinks any the worse of 
them! Why should they, if it makes them happy? 
I don’t think religion’s worth making any fuss about 
myself, though I can’t let Eunice grow up quite a 
little heathen, can I?” 

Mrs. Dampier looked very pretty as she said this, 
and so young, almost like a child with a child’s petu- 
lance and irresponsibility, that one could almost for- 
get that she was a woman of the world with a full 
and rather tragic experience of life. 

“But Major Dampier? Would he care for her 
to run the risk?” said Mrs. Parmeter. “Surely you 
mean to consult him?” 

“He is to blame for separating me from Eunice. 
He says if I don’t take her back with me that I’m to 
make what he calls suitable arrangements for her. 
That means fresh air, plenty of milk and good food, 
warm baths, proper clothing. Do you suppose he 
even thinks about the soul of a child of seven?” 

Those last words struck a responsive chord in the 
heart of Ivy Parmeter. It vibrated now with a cer- 
tain emotion. She saw, as if with sudden, new 
vision, the neglected little soul of Eunice Dampier 
appealing to her for help. Up till that moment she 
had not thought of the matter in this intimate, spirit- 
ual light. 

She could do more than feed and clothe and 
educate Eunice. She could teach her at least the 
elements of other things. She could guard her, and 
she could bring a measure of happiness into her life 
which could not so far have been a very happy one. 

“If you really mean it — if you are really serious 


lOO 


EUNICE 


— I will ask Norman/’ she- said, with the air of one 
who has made a great decision. 

Mrs. Dampier put down her cup, sprang to her 
feet, and, going impulsively across to where Mrs. 
Parmeter was sitting, embraced her. 

“Dear Mrs. Parmeter, how can I thank you? 
For, of course, if you are in favor of it, Mr. Par- 
meter will consent.” 

Eunice, she reflected, would be in clover if the 
plan materialized. Any expenses that would be in- 
curred would be merely nominal. And she had 
dreaded having to send the child to the kind of cheap 
school that was all they could afford, or to one of 
those dreary homes where elderly impecunious spin- 
sters “take” the forlorn children of Anglo-Indian 
parents. The religious question troubled her not at 
all. She was extraordinarily ignorant of the 
Catholic religion beyond the fact that its votaries 
“fasted” on Fridays. She only wanted to leave 
Eunice in opulent and comfortable surroundings. 

Mrs. Parmeter, touched a little by the outburst of 
affection and emotion that had prompted this un- 
expected embrace, now clearly visualized her own 
duty toward Eunice. 

It was almost as if the child were standing in front 
of her, niaking an intimate appeal to something that 
was passionately maternal within her. 

“I hope he will consent,” she said quietly. 


CHAPTER XI 

HEN her guest had gone, Mrs. Parmeter sud- 
denly remembered the presence of Julian. 
She opened the door softly and entered the room, 
fearing that he might have fallen asleep and that her 


EUNICE 


lOI 


movement might wake him. But he was sitting up 
on the sofa, his face a little flushed and his eyes 
shining. 

“Oh, Mummy, will she come here? Did you say 
you would have her?” 

“Oh, I didn’t think you could hear. You shouldn’t 
have listened, Julian,” she answered reproachfully. 

“I couldn’t help hearing till you shut the door. 
And it was so interrwjdng.” 

“You mustn’t talk about it yet to any one. Don’t 
say anything to Geoff or nurse. You see I must ask 
father.” 

Julian’s face fell a little. “He won’t want her,” 
he said. 

“Why, what makes you think that?” 

“Something inside me says so.” 

“And do you want her so very much, Ju?” 

“Oh, Mum, it would be lovely, having her. To 
see her every day instead of just going for walks or 
to tea sometimes.” His face kindled. 

She bent down and kissed him. “I must talk it 
over with father. And you won’t say a word — even 
to Eunice herself?” 

“Not one little word. And Geoff would never 
guess, would he?” 

Presently she took Julian up to the schoolroom 
and handed him over to the charge of the nurse, who 
had returned some time before with Geoffrey. The 
schoolroom tea was j.ust over. Mrs. Parmeter said 
to the nurse : 

“I think you’d better put Julian to bed now, nurse, 
ril come in presently. He’s still a little feverish.” 

She went upstairs to the big attic room at the top 
of the house, which Norman had made his study long 
ago when the twins were small and he had wanted to 
be out of sound of their shrill crying and pattering 
feet. The dark-paneled walls were lined with books 


102 


EUNICE 


almost up to the sloping ceiling. There were two 
big windows overlooking the sea from what seemed 
to be a great height. Outside one of the windows 
there was a small balcony, where Norman liked to 
sit in fine sunny weather. He had a fixed belief that 
he wrote all his best poetry when the sound of the 
sea was in his ears. 

Mrs. Parmeter found him now sitting at his im- 
mense flat table on which stood an electric lamp with 
a green shade. He was correcting some proofs. 
His finely-chiseled face — so like Julian’s — looked 
unusually handsome in the faint, colored light that 
partially illuminated it. 

“Well, Ivy, darling?” he said putting down his 
pen. 

“I’ve had a visitor,” she said. “It was Mrs. 
Dampier. She stayed a long time . . . She’s going 
back to India very soon. Major Dampier insists 
upon it.” 

“About time, too. Dampier should have put his 
foot down long ago.” He had heard sinister 
rumors of her debts in Brighton, her losses at bridge, 
and he had learnt to pity her absent, much-abused 
husband, and to think there was perhaps something 
to be said for him. 

“Well, he’s put it down now to some purpose. 
He’s even fixed on the steamer she is to go out in. 
And she wants us — to have Eunice here. 

As she said this she looked across the table at 
Norman. 

He gazed at her in astonishment — an astonish- 
ment that seemed to hold something of anger. 

“My dear— I hope you refused! The imperti- 
nence of asking you to burden yourself with that 
brat!” 

“Indeed, I didn’t refuse, Norman. I said I 
would consult you.” 


EUNICE 


103 


“So as to shift the disagreeable task of refusing 
upon me? Well, my back is broad enough, I sup- 
pose.” His face wore that slightly ironic smile she 
knew so well, and which betokened annoyance, 
though not of a very irreparable kind. 

Mrs. Parmeter stirred in the big leather arm- 
chair. 

“But, Norman, I don’t want any one to refuse. 
I should like to have the child here.” 

“Nonsense, Ivy. Haven’t you enough with those 
two great boys? The Dampier’s been working on 
your feelings. She’d far better send that little minx 
to a good school.” 

“But I don’t like to think of a child — a little girl 
— being left to strangers.” 

“Oh, you’ve got ridiculous sentimental notions 
from reading ‘Baa, baa. Black Sheep’ I” 

“It isn’t only that, but I think it would be for 
Eunice’s good. She would have a simple, natural, 
ordered life with us — such as she’s never had, poor 
child. Whipped one day and stuffed with sweets 
the next. And the boys would like a little playmate 
— at least, I know Julian would.” 

“You’ve already sounded Ju?” he inquired, draw- 
ing his fine black brows together. 

“He was in the back drawing-room. He’s got a 
cold, you know. And he heard part — not all.” 

“So I’m to do what Julian wishes?” 

“Oh, you know I don’t mean that, Norman. But 
I promise never to let her get in your way. You’ll 
really hardly know there’s another child in the 
house.” She repeated unconsciously Mrs. Dampier’s 
own words. 

Norman turned over the little heap of proofs. 
“They are good, you know. Ivy,” he said. There 
was no conceit in his voice, only the artist’s con- 
sciousness of work well done. 


104 


EUNICE 


“I’m sure they are,” she said, “I want ‘The Vision 
of Saints’ to make you famous.” 

“No,” he said, “if I’d been going to win fame I 
should have accomplished it before now. The 
laurels are for the young poets — not the old ones.” 

“You’re not old,” she reminded him. 

“Too old for that, anyhow. Don’t let Julian be 
a poet. Ivy — it’s a very discouraging life.” 

“You’ve had nice moments, though, Norman,” 
she said. 

“Thanks chiefly to you.” 

“No — I mean from the people whose opinion was 
really worth having. That doesn’t always happen 
to the best sellers, you know.” 

It was difficult to return to the subject of Eunice, 
and yet something must be settled and settled 
quickly. Major Dampier’s peremptory instructions 
left little scope for procrastination. 

“You haven’t told me yet if I may have Eunice?” 

“I don’t want you to be burdened with such a 
responsibility. It wouldn’t be fair. She might be 
ill — she might die. Lots of things might happen. 
And she isn’t a very attractive child, is she. Ivy?” 

“I do like her and I’m sorry for her. She hasn’t 
had a chance of happiness. Do let me try, 
Norman.” 

“Well, I suppose you must have her if you want 
her,” he said at last, with some reluctance. 

“But not if you would hate it,” she put in quickly. 

“Oh, I shan’t hate it. In any case, we might give 
it a trial and if it doesn’t work we can dissolve the 
arrangement.” 

“Oh, thank you, Norman. I’m sure it’ll be a 
great relief to Mrs. Dampier.” 

“No doubt of that,” he said sarcastically; “she’ll 
always be one to shift her responsibilities. Why 
doesn’t she take her back to India with her?” 


EUNICE 


105 


“She doesn’t seem to want to. She’s afraid that 
Major Dampier won’t let her come home in the hot 
weather if Eunice is with her. You see, she can 
make the child an excuse. . . ” 

“Dampier will see through that, I should hope. 
They don’t seem to be a very united couple.” 

“No — I’m afraid they’re not.” 

She went softly away for now his attention was 
obviously straying to the work in hand. When she 
was back in the drawing-room she drew aside the 
curtain and looked out seaward. She could hear 
the sea very plainly, its crisp, sharp movement back- 
ward over the stony beach; then the heavy plunge 
forward of breaking waves. The double melody 
of it soothed her; she could have stood there for 
hours listening. 

She wondered if she had not been a little selfish in 
imposing her will upon Norman’s in this matter of 
Eunice’s coming. But if he had been really averse 
to the plan he would certainly have said so. He 
would not have given in despite all her pleading. 
Besides, it could make no very great difference to 
him. He was not over-fond of children, though she 
knew that he had wished for a little daughter, and 
he never saw a great deal of the two boys. Some- 
times, indeed, she had wished that he would occupy 
himself a little more with them, instead of leaving 
them so completely to her. They were getting big. 
and needed perhaps a man’s influence, a man’s view 
of things. 

It would give Julian a great deal of pleasure and 
happiness to have Eunice there — of that she felt 
quite sure. But she was not really thinking so much 
of Julian as of Eunice herself. The child was so 
forlorn and spiritually so uncared-for. She was 
leading the kind of life that is utterly detrimental to 


io6 


EUNICE 


the formation of a frank and honorable character. 
Already she showed quite a talent for intrigue, and 
she had become wary and vigilant, watching her 
mother’s moods, eluding her observation when the 
moment seemed inauspicious, and lying unblushingly 
about her own small misdemeanors. And her very 
training was fostering this tendency in Eunice. The 
child was afraid of her mother and endeavored de- 
liberately to circumvent her. It was like a little 
duel between two clever, well-matched opponents. 
But Mrs. Dampier was not easily fooled, and it was 
impossible for a child of seven to be continually on 
her guard. 

Julian had informed his mother of a good deal 
that passed; he was in Eunice's confidence, and he 
was able to see with a child’s quick penetration that 
she was not wholly to blame. 

Mrs. Parmeter had a little secret fear of the 
deeper intimacy that must arise between the children. 
Eunice would become in time almost like their own 
sister. She was the kind of child that other children 
follow. In games she constantly took the lead. 
And she might influence the boys in other ways, 
diminish perhaps their sense of truthfulness, their 
frankness, their readiness to acknowledge their own 
faults. But Mrs. Parmeter put those thoughts from 
her. Eunice was only seven, and it was not too late 
to counteract the evils of her early education. She 
sat down that very evening and wrote a little note to 
Mrs. Dampier, telling her that she and her husband 
had talked the matter over and would be delighted 
to receive Eunice, at any rate for the winter. If the 
plan seemed to be successful there was no reason 
why it should not continue beyond that time, but she 
thought it would be well for both sides to make a 
preliminary trial of it. 


EUNICE 


107 


CHAPTER XII 

ERY clearly did Julian’s memory retain those im- 
^ pressions infused by the departure of Mrs. 
Dampier for India — a name that always held a 
mysterious fascination for him as of a country 
strangely peopled with persons resembling Eunice’s 
ayah, and where camels and elephants were at least 
as common as horses were in Brighton. 

Eunice went away with her mother before the 
event; once she sent Julian an ill-written little letter 
from London. When she returned to Brighton to 
take up her abode in Brunswick Terrace her mother 
was no longer with her and she was accompanied on 
her journey by Miss Jones. 

He could remember her coming into the house 
while the cab still stood in the road, and her small 
trunks were being brought into the hall. Miss 
Jones, who was in command of the situation, directed 
the man, and subsequently paid him his fare. Mrs. 
Parmeter with the twins had come downstairs to 
greet their little visitor, and Julian became instantly 
aware of a disappointingly changed Eunice. She 
looked such a small, solitary little figure in her brown 
traveling-coat with its big collar of dark fur. She 
was cold and looked pinched and miserable and as 
if she wanted very badly to cry. She went up to the 
schoolroom with them almost at once, and then Mrs. 
Parmeter showed her the little room next to that of 
nurse where she would sleep. It looked very pretty 
with its fresh chintzes and curtains and its little white 
crib, and a new blue carpet on the floor. Its one 
window looked seaward, which would surely please 
her, Julian felt, but after one careless preoccupied 
glance Eunice made no comment at all. She seemed 
to be depressed rather than exhilarated by her new 
surroundings. 


io8 


EUNICE 


This sense of change in her made Julian feel as if 
their old intimacy had gone past recovery; it made 
him nervous and silent in her presence. Geoffrey 
was more at his ease, simply because he didn’t care 
particularly whether Eunice were happy or not; he 
had resented her coming, aware of a half-jealous 
anger that she should be there continually usurping 
so much of Julian’s attention. But Julian had looked 
forward to her coming with an eagerness that domi- 
nated him, and he felt at first a disappointment that 
actually hurt him, because she was so silent and 
changed and to all appearances so sad. To be glad 
oneself with a sharp profound joy and then to find 
that gladness unshared by the person whose presence 
has promoted it must always be a bitter experience, 
whether it comes in childhood, with its inability to 
analyze, or in later years, when happiness has neces- 
sarily lost its first perfect splendor. Julian waited, 
watching for the return of the gay, vivid, daring 
Eunice whom he had known and loved, and puzzled 
his little head over because she seemed to him a 
being of quite another sphere. 

“She’s a stick,” announced Geoffrey, when the 
boys were preparing to go to bed that evening and 
he had stepped across into Julian’s room as he nearly 
always did. “She can’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose. And 
we used to call her naughty.” 

“It’s because she isn’t happy,” said Julian, defend- 
ing her. 

“She ought to be happy, then. She ought to be 
glad to come here. I’m sure nobody wanted her to 
come !” 

“She misses her mother,” said Julian simply. 

“Rot! She never hardly saw her.” 

“That isn’t the same as never seeing her — perhaps 
for a whole year,” said Julian, who had given the 
position his deep, unbiased consideration. 


EUNICE 


109 

“No, — worse luck!’’ said Geoffrey. “I wonder 
why they sent her here.” 

“Because she knows us. We’re her friends,” said 
Julian. 

“Speak for yourself,” said Geoffrey, “I’m not 
friends with her.” 

There was a short silence. Julian was made un- 
happy by this curious hostility on the part of his 
brother. Didn’t any one want her, then? Did she 
realize it? And was this the cause of her present 
inexplicable sadness? 

Julian said at last: 

“I think she’s unhappy because she didn’t go back 
to India. She wanted to see her father again. 
And then she’s been there before — it was her home. 
She liked it.” 

“As if I didn’t know that! She swanks enough 
about it I” 

But to Julian the very fact that Eunice had been 
in India, had traversed those several seas depicted 
on the map, and had a father in that strange far 
land, seemed to surround her with a halo of romance. 
It gave color and movement to her life. He could 
have envied her that rich, varied experience, so un- 
like his own. 

One morning soon after her arrival he found her 
studying the map in the schoolroom. She had crept 
in there alone, had pulled out a big heavy atlas and 
was poring over the Eastern Hemisphere. When 
he came in she looked up almost guiltily, as if she 
were ashamed at his discovering her thus occupied. 

He came slowly up to the table, his eyes fixed upon 
her. 

“Eunice, why didn’t you ask me? I would have 
got it out for you.” 

“I thought you’d laugh,” she said uneasily. 

He sat down by her side. 


I lO 


EUNICE 


“Is it to see where Mrs. Dampier’s going?” 

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes swam with sudden 
tears. Julian looked away, as if he ought not to 
have seen them. 

“Mayn’t I help?” he said timidly. 

Two brown heads were now bent over the big 
outspread book. Julian’s straight dark hair touched 
Eunice’s gipsy curls. 

“She went as far as this by train,” said Eunice, 
pointing to the port of Marseilles. “I’m to have a 
letter or postcard from there. Then the ship will 
stop there.” Her small finger pointed now to 
Malta. “I can just remember going there. And 
here’s the beginning of the Suez Canal. You see 
the desert then, and camels and flamingoes and lots 
of wild white birds.” Her voice was quietly reflec- 
tive. “Then the Red Sea, where Pharao’s hosts 
were drowned. There was a man on board ship 
coming home who told me that. Here’s Aden — 
papa lived at Aden once, before I was born. You 
don’t stop after that till you come to Bombay.” 

“How well you know it, Eunice,” he said in ad- 
miration. 

“Miss Jones showed me — I asked her to. But I 
wanted to go over it again so as not to forget.” 
Her hand traced a line across the Indian Ocean. “I 
wish I had a map of my own — to hang up in my 
room. Then I could look at it every day.” 

“Would it make you happy again, Eunice?” he 
asked. Greatly daring he added: “I do so want 
you to be happy.” 

She shook her head. 

“Not yet — I couldn’t be happy yet.” 

“You don’t want to be?” 

She said slowly: “Would you be happy if your 
mother went away and left you?” At the back of 
all her present misery there was an injured feeling. 


EUNICE 


1 1 1 


He considered the point. “No, but I shouldn’t 
let her know. I think I’d like her to believe that I 
was happy.” 

“She wouldn’t believe it,” said Eunice, with quiet 
finality. 

“But it’s not because you hate being here with us?” 
he asked. 

“What a silly question to ask I You are all very 
kind.” There was a touch of the old Eunice, a 
trifle arrogant and contemptuous. 

are happy to have you,” he said. He 
wanted her to be quite sure of this. It must hurt to 
feel — as she certainly did — that her mother didn’t 
want her, had left her behind, had denied her that 
beautiful journey she had just traced upon the map. 

“Geoffrey isn’t,” said Eunice. 

“How — how — ” he stammered, “can you say 
such a thing as that?” 

All the same, he had been dreadfully afraid that 
she would, sooner or later, make the discovery. 

“Girls always know,” she answered. 

“But he does like you to be here — I know he 
does.” He still believed that Geoffrey’s dislike was 
a mere pretence, arising from a desire to dissociate 
himself from the prevalent and more conventional 
views. 

“You ask him!” she flung back her little head. 
There was a note of anger as well as of injured pride 
in her voice. “And I don’t care — I don’t care a bit ! 
Some day I mean to tell him so 1” 

It would serve Geoffrey right, Julian thought, if 
she did. . . He didn’t envy him just then, though an 
instinct of loyalty was urging him to defend his 
brother. Before he could find adequate words she 
went on speaking in a sharp, decisive way. 

“You’re ever so much nicer. I always liked you 
best, even the first day!” 


1 12 


EUNICE 


“Oh, but Fm not nicer than Geoffrey. He’s ever 
so much cleverer than I am,” he said. 

Eunice shrugged her shoulders. She was looking 
very pretty then in a vivid, fiery way. The discus- 
sion had broken down her self-restraint, her silence. 
But her superior manner, which had reasserted it- 
self, made Julian feel stupid and humble ; as a slow, 
quiet child will sometimes feel in the presence of a 
brilliant companion. Eunice was years older than 
the Parmeter boys in her experience of life. Her 
outlook was quite different from theirs. She had 
never led a quiet nor a settled existence ; always there 
had been movement, adventures of a kind. And, 
although Julian did not put it into so many words, 
he had a vague feeling that she had received in ex- 
change for this perpetual movement, this constant 
excitement of not knowing quite what was to happen 
next, the dulness of their own quiet, uneventful life. 
He and Geoffrey could tell pretty well on getting up 
in the morning exactly what would happen during 
the day. Their lives were arranged for them in an 
ordered, agreeable routine of lessons, play, meals, 
sleep, with fixed times for prayers and for being with 
their parents. Even when they had lived in Rome 
the routine had always been strictly adhered to. He 
could contrast their portion with Eunice’s and feel 
that it was in some ways an inadequate substitute, 
and that even the very order and regularity of it all 
might be pressing upon her with a certain arbitrary 
sense of restraint. She perhaps even missed those 
glorious opportunities of wrong-doing and the sub- 
sequent delicious occasions of deception and intrigue 
in order to conceal it, that had made her life with 
her mother a perpetual adventure. Mrs. Dampier 
stood for many things in Eunice’s life — gay, bright, 
exciting changes, such as paying visits to strange 
houses, glimpses of London and of the country. 


EUNICE 


113 

fresh people, fresh faces, with but few opportunities 
for settling down to regular lessons. If her hasty 
temper imposed upon Eunice less pleasant interludes, 
these had, at least, the merit of being well paid for. 
It was wonderful, too, how quickly she forgot those 
pains and penalties. 

But as the days wore on and she began lessons 
again with Miss Jones while Julian and Geoffrey 
went daily to school, there was a great improvement 
in the child’s spirits. Letting his mother into the 
secret, Julian spent his pocket-money in buying a 
map of the world to hang up in Eunice’s room. 
Whether it was good for her to dwell so persistently 
upon the journey, almost as if she were making it 
herself in imagination, Mrs. Parmeter was not quite 
sure; but, like Julian, she felt anxious to do every- 
thing she could to restore the little girl’s happiness 
and tranquillity, and to make that sore heart less 
sore. 

Mrs. Parmeter was very kind to Eunice, often 
going up to the schoolroom to talk to her, and see 
how she was getting on. Sometimes in the after- 
noon she would take her driving with her. But 
they made at first little progress in friendship, and 
Eunice seemed to hold herself aloof, perhaps from 
some obscure sense of loyalty toward that vanished 
mother. It is true that the letters and postcards did 
not come very regularly, for Mrs. Dampier was en- 
joying the voyage as a last burst of freedom before 
“going back to prison,” as she sonietimes frankly 
called it. She had scant leisure to think of her little 
girl except to congratulate herself upon the easy and 
admirable manner in which she had shifted the care 
of her to others. There was a kind of genius in 
accomplishing a thing like that, almost as it were 
with one wave of the wand. The only detail that 
ever troubled her was the fact that the Parmeters 


EUNICE 


114 

were Roman Catholics, although at the time she had 
expressed an entire indifference to it. But she knew 
Major Dampier would almost certainly object, and 
during the voyage she debated whether it would be 
diplomatic to tell him or not. By the time she had 
reached Bombay the question was decided in the 
negative; he was to be kept in ignorance. . . Much 
of her time on board ship was taken up in making 
those startling changes of toilette which amazed as 
well as amused her fellow-passengers. During the 
voyage she had three men at her feet — an Indian 
civilian, grey and austere; a young and pink sub- 
altern, whose knowledge of life, acquired in a 
country parsonage, was practically nil; and Sir 
Chandos Mirton, who had lately lost his wife and 
had left three sons at school in England. He found 
Mrs. Dampier’s attentive sympathy very consoling. 
Thus her hands were full and the voyage proved a 
thrilling and exciting one, much more so than the 
route and ship, so carefully selected by Major Dam- 
pier on account of its economy, had seemed to 
promise. People on board who did not know Major 
Dampier were inclined to pity him, and to prophesy 
that sooner or later the marriage would end dis- 
astrously. 


CHAPTER XIII 

E unice had a cold and was being kept indoors. 

She was a restless little creature, and, since she 
was so unaccustomed to restraint of any kind, Mrs. 
Parmeter did not attempt to keep her entirely in the 
schoolroom, but allowed her to roam about the 
house as long as she kept out of draughts. 

Geoffrey grumbled at this unnatural liberty, which 
he greatly desired to share, especially during those 


EUNICE 


115 

hours which should naturally have been devoted to 
preparation for the next day’s work. But Julian 
accepted it as part of the inevitable difference that 
must always characterize their respective lives; he 
had little wish to follow Eunice into those paths of 
larger freedom. 

“You see, she isn’t like us. This isn’t her real 
home,” he told his brother by way of explanation. 

“I don’t see why she should be treated differently 
and always have her own way when we’re not 
allowed to,” said Geoffrey, who disliked to contem- 
plate the bestowal of such unusual privileges, ac- 
cepted too in a careless, taken-for-granted kind of 
way. “We have to stay in this beastly hole of a 
schoolroom, so why shouldn’t she?” 

“Because she’s a girl, for one thing.” 

“Girls ought to be kept much more strictly than 
boys.” 

Eunice sat for a long time by the window in her 
own room, where a bright fire had been lit, perhaps 
with the hope that she might remain there quietly. 
The sea looked very grey and angry to-day under a 
heavy, lowering sky that promised rain. A wind 
was blowing and the crowds of people walking on the 
Front presented slanting silhouettes that suggested 
an ineffectual struggle against the elements; it gave 
them, Eunice thought, a certain undignified appear- 
ance. The Lawns, which were now closed to the 
public, looked dark and sodden, and had lost their 
fresh emerald tints. 

But Eunice soon grew tired of sitting still, espe- 
cially when Julian was not there to talk to her. It 
came into her mind that she had not yet explored 
the whole of the house, nor had she yet penetrated 
to the top floor of all, where was situated that mys- 
terious, almost inaccessible, domain called “father’s 
study.” She had never been farther than the foot 


ii6 


EUNICE 


of that last long flight of stairs which toward the end 
curved abruptly out of sight into a region of seem- 
ingly perpetual twilight. She would make the ex- 
pedition now, for, although she was slightly in awe 
of Mr. Parmeter, he had never spoken to her except 
in the kindest of voices. 

Light as a fairy, she mounted the stairs. There 
was always something dainty and graceful about 
Eunice. She never performed rough or clumsy 
actions, but seemed always to have perfect control 
over her slight, lissom body. Even when she was 
shy and nervous she was never awkward, as Julian 
sometimes was in his absent-minded forgetfulness. 
She climbed the last flight and found herself con- 
fronted with a number of doors all securely shut, and 
offering no solution as to the land she wished to 
discover. But on reflection she decided that the 
door to the left would certainly lead to a front room 
and at least from there she would obtain a better 
view of the sea and the long grey windy Front. She 
opened the door cautiously and then stood for a 
moment astonished and a little embarrassed upon 
the threshold. 

“Come in,” said Mr. Parmeter. 

He sat facing the door at a large table covered 
with papers. The final proofs of “The Vision of 
Saints” had reached him that afternoon, and he was 
going through them very carefully for that last im- 
portant revision. But in spite of the interruption 
his face softened a little as the child approached. 

“Sit down and don’t talk for a few minutes,” he 
said. 

Eunice sat down and looked about her. She had 
never lived among books, for Mrs. Dampier had 
seldom found time for reading, beyond a perfunctory 
glance through the new novels that were being talked 
about. Hers was not a mentality that sought to 


EUNICE 


117 

derive sustenance from literature; she preferred to 
gain her knowledge of life at first-hand. Since she 
had left school at the age of sixteen she had never 
read a solid book of any kind, and she had been 
bored with the two little volumes of poetry she had 
persuaded Norman Parmeter to lend her. “I can’t 
make out what it’s all about,” she had thought, fling- 
ing them aside, “nothing ever seems to happen in 
them.” But Eunice, unlike her mother, was born 
with a passionate thirst for knowledge, and Miss 
Jones was beginning to teach her how admirably 
this thirst could be assuaged through the mere proc- 
ess of reading. Books, in short, told you things — 
about the sun and moon, the stars and the sea, and 
flowers and birds — about kings and queens with 
strange, tempestuous lives — about battles, famines, 
and plagues. And there were books in unaccount- 
able numbers, clothing and garmenting the very 
walls. . . Mr. Parmeter soon forgot all about 
Eunice. He was absorbed and concentrated. The 
breathless silence was only broken by the steady 
ticking of the clock and by an occasional stir of 
paper or pen. Eunice crept from her chair and took 
a book from one of the shelves. It attracted her by 
its white vellum binding with tooling of delicate 
gold. 

She was accustomed to keep very still — so still 
that it had often happened her very presence was 
forgotten or at least overlooked. Like that one 
heard many curious, interesting conversations. It 
is true that she had not always perfectly compre- 
hended their purport, but on the other hand they had 
given her a certain undesirable knowledge of her 
mother’s attitude toward her father. And almost 
insensibly this attitude had begun to color her own 
idea of her father, since her personal impressions 
were growing a little dim and confused after nearly 


ii8 


EUNICE 


a year’s separation from him. He had always been 
very devoted to his only child, and she had brought 
away from India the remembrance of a tall man who 
would walk and ride beside her and who took her 
for long drives in a high dog-cart. Latterly, how- 
ever, she had only heard him spoken of with con- 
tempt and resentment and a bitterness that suggested 
dislike; she had heard people pity her mother, and 
she could hardly reconcile this person with the man 
who had been so gay and gentle and tender. Be- 
sides, he had consented to her being left alone in 
England, so perhaps he had not loved her so very 
much after all. She had regarded her going back 
to him as an absolute certainty, and the fact that she 
had after all been left behind had been the first 
concrete disillusionment of her life. The funda- 
mental change of being abruptly separated in this 
way from both her parents had been to her little 
short of a disaster, and she had attributed it to some 
decision of her father’s, made without reference to 
her own happiness. These thoughts, never even 
submitted to Julian for consideration, had largely 
prevented her from settling down happily in her new 
home. She held herself aloof like a stranger; life 
was teaching her that she was unwanted. 

Her choice of a book had not been unfortunate. 
She had taken at random a copy of the “Arabian 
Nights,” containing only a few of the better-known 
stories, and illustrated delightfully by an artist 
friend of Mr. Parmeter’s. The turbaned figures 
with their white or colored robes recalled vaguely to 
her mind the fading impressions of India, and they 
caught at her heart with something of the ineradi- 
cable nostalgia for the East. The sunless December 
afternoon; the restless, wind-tormented sea; the 
wheeling gulls; the dark, swiftly-travelling clouds; 
the struggling figures on the Front; were all swept 


EUNICE 


119 

out of her sight. She was conscious of an impres- 
sion of glittering sunshine, of white-clad, bare-legged 
forms with dark brown faces under white turbans. 
Sitting in a low chair by the window she became 
quickly absorbed in the marvelous adventures of 
Aladdin, with its eternal appeal to the child’s love 
of the magical. She was transported beyond her 
nostalgia and that forlorn sense of having been 
abandoned by those to whom she belonged. She 
forgot her father and mother, forgot Julian with 
his ceaseless efforts to make her happy, forgot the 
man who sat there unconscious of her presence. 

It was growing dusk and she had nearly come to 
the end of the story when the door opened a little 
abruptly and Mrs. Parmeter came breathlessly into 
the room. 

“Norman I Have you seen Eunice? We can’t 
find her anywhere I” 

Before he had had time to answer, Eunice 
emerged from her seat behind the heav^ red curtain, 
holding the precious book imher hand. 

“I’m here, Mrs. Parmeter.” 

Norman Parmeter rose from his seat. He had 
finished his work. As he stood there he lifted his 
arms behind his head and smothered a yawn. 

“So you’ve been there all the time, you little 
mouse? What’s that you’re reading? Give it to 
me.” 

She surrendered the book with only a momentary 
hesitation. She hoped that some day he would let 
her come back and read some more. 

“Never read Aladdin before?” he questioned. 

Eunice shook her head. “Never.” 

“Like it?” 

“Yes, very much.” Her eyes were shining as if 
she had actually participated in those thrilling ad- 
ventures. “I hadn’t quite finished.” 


120 


EUNICE 


“You shall finish it another day. Come up here 
when you want to. I don’t like my books taken 
away.” 

“Thank you — I’d rather read up here. It’s quiet 
— there’s no one to talk.” 

Norman Parmeter laughed. 

“I’d forgotten you were there. If you’re always 
as quiet as that you can come up whenever you like.” 

“Thank you,” said Eunice. She glanced round 
the room with its glowing fire and the light flickering 
on the shining bindings of the books, revealing here 
and there a touch of dull gold, a gleam of brilliant 
color. 

“It’s tea time, dear,” said Mrs. Parmeter; “you’ll 
find the boys in the schoolroom.” 

Eunice went away and then Mis. Pacmeter said: 

“I hope she didn’t disturb you, Norman?” 

“No — she was as quiet as a mouse. Queer little 

piece of goods. But if it’ll make her happy ” 

He paused. 

“Ah — you saw she wasn’t happy?” She had 
wondered sometimes if he had ever observed Eunice 
at all. 

“Well, I can’t help seeing she’s got a forlorn 
look. I daresay she misses her mother. Let her 
come up here. Ivy, when she feels inclined. I 
rather like having her. The boys are kind to her, 
I hope?” 

“Julian’s devoted to her. Geoffrey doesn’t take 
much notice of her, I think. But then he’s got 
such heaps to occupy him, with his work and games 
and school-life.” 

It was the beginning of a friendship that oddly 
sprang up between the two without conscious effort 
on either side toward a greater intimacy. When 
her lessons for the day were done and the afternoon 
walk was over and Miss Jones — ^who did not live in 


EUNICE 


111 


the house — had gone home, Eunice would find her 
way up to the study at the top of the house. This 
new departure excited some astonishment in the 
minds of the twins, who regarded her as extraor- 
dinarily privileged. Julian especially would have 
given worlds to be able to accompany her on Sunday 
afternoons — the only day they spent at home — and 
sit with her beside that high window overlooking 
the sea. But he never suggested doing it, and indeed 
he was nervously apprehensive of betraying this 
desire. 

Norman Parmeter got into the habit of looking 
out books for this child of eight, discovering soon 
that she was precocious beyond her years in some 
ways and in others as ignorant as a baby. The 
desire for serious knowledge didn’t exist, as he was 
quick to perceive, in that little head under its mop 
of dark, shining curls. But she had the wish to 
enter and lose herself in that magical, impersonal 
land of romance to which books could so quickly and 
without effort transport her. Her baby troubles 
were quickly forgotten. Parmeter encouraged her 
to talk; the child had aroused his rare interest, and 
she soon ceased to be shy with him and he learned 
a good deal about her, more perhaps even than. 
Julian knew. But when books had fulfilled their 
primary purpose of healing her through her imagina- 
tion, he determined to lead her on to higher motives 
and to teach her the true value of reading. It was 
perhaps early days as yet to produce anything too 
definitely instructive. Aladdin and Sindbad the 
Sailor and the Alices sufficed for her immediate 
needs. He liked to see her dainty, fastidious care 
of books and that she always arrived with hands 
that had been freshly washed. Mrs. Dampier had 
early inculcated a meticulous care of her person into 
her small daughter’s head. 


122 


EUNICE 


“Won’t you stay down here and play?” said 
Julian, wistfully, one Sunday evening when he saw 
her preparing for departure. 

“No — I’m reading a lovely book. It’s ever so 
much nicer than your games. And then you’ve got 
Geoffrey.” 

She danced away from him up the stairs ; he saw 
her vanish round the curve of the landing above. 
He went back to the school-room. . . 

Far from being a passing whi^^> she seldom let 
a day go by without finding her way up to Mr. Par- 
meter’s study. He bought books for her now, and 
in the innumerable catalogues of second-hand books 
or new “reminders” that reached him, he got into 
the habit of marking any of them that from their 
description seemed to be suitable for her. It was 
really he who educated her, not Miss Jones who 
taught her so competently to read and write and do 
sums. Little by little, Parmeter imposed his will 
upon her. Half an hour’s solid reading he insisted 
upon before she was allowed to open a book merely 
for amusement. She rebelled at first, and went 
away angry and mutinous; he had a glimpse then 
of the old, undisciplined Eunice. But she came back 
a day or two later in a meeker mood and recognizing 
his obstinacy she gave in. The look of slightly con- 
temptuous astonishment he bestowed upon her weep- 
ing castigated her pride. 

“You’re too old to play at reading,” he said. 

She was not more than eight years old when the 
scene took place, but he invariably treated her like 
a grown-up person. 

“But this is my play-time. And I do lots of 
lessons with Miss Jones.” 

“If you want to play, stop in the school-room.” 

He went back to his work. “The Vision of 
Saints” had then been before the public for some 


EUNICE 


123 


months and to his surprise it had prospered and had 
already gone through more than one edition. 
Mysticism was fashionable, and people read it and 
spoke of the Catholic poet, Norman Parmeter. He 
was secretly delighted at his success. 


CHAPTER XIV 

F or about six months after her departure Mrs. 

Dampier wrote regularly to Eunice, though her 
letters were never of great length. Her father also 
wrote to her, but at rarer intervals; he was a busy 
man. He was satisfied that his little girl was being 
cared for, and Mrs. Dampier had painted every- 
thing with regard to the Parmeters, their house, 
their children, their social importance, in vivid rose- 
color. But books of all kinds have a way of travel- 
ling to India and it chanced that a copy of “The 
Vision of Saints” fell into the hands of Major Dam- 
pier. He read it and came to the very obvious 
conclusion that the writer was a Catholic. The 
name “Parmeter” was not a very common one, and 
he then realized for the first time that for nearly a 
year past his little girl had been in charge of people 
who professed this religion. It was not that he had 
any extraordinary prejudice against the old Faith 
and its adherents, but he was vexed to find that his 
wife had not been frank with him on the point, and 
he hoped that she had quite clearly stated that she 
did not wish the child to be influenced in any way. 
He did not want his only child to be brought up in a 
different religion from his own. 

“What on earth does it matter what they are, 
when they can give Eunice such a good home ? 
They are rich people and she is happy with them. 


124 


EUNICE 


I should have thought you would be the last to make 
a fuss about a little thing like that,” she said, in reply 
to his questioning. 

“I do not call it a little thing,” said Major Dam- 
pier. “I cannot have her going to church with them 
— I must make that quite clear. If they don’t 
choose to have her there any more, we must make 
some other arrangement.” 

“You can’t possibly write and tell them they are 
not to take her to church with them,” said Mrs. 
Dampier angrily. 

“I am certainly going to take steps in the matter,” 
he said; “and I think you ought to have told me 
about it.” 

“If I had tried all over England I could never 
have found a better home for Eunice, but nothing 
satisfies you,” said Mrs. Dampier irritably. 

He wished he could have gone home, but he knew 
it would be impossible to get leave. There was 
trouble brewing on the frontier, of the kind that is 
dismissed in the English papers with a few lines, 
perhaps containing the deaths of two or three 
officers. In these circumstances Major Dampier 
would have put in no request for leave. 

He wanted to arrange things as tactfully as pos- 
sible, for he could not but be. aware that Eunice was 
thoroughly happy and admirably cared for in her 
present surroundings. He liked the letters that 
Mrs. Parmeter wrote nearly every week; he formed 
an impression of her as a cultivated, very maternal, 
very high-principled woman who really loved his 
little girl. And he shrank from hurting her feelings 
by brusquely telling her that Eunice was not to learn 
to be a Catholic while she was in her charge. But 
he felt that it was his duty to take some steps in the 
matter, because the child was at a susceptible age, 
when she might easily assimilate influences of the 


EUNICE 


125 


kind. He determined to write a letter to a friend 
of his, a certain Lady Eliot, who was staying in 
Brighton and who had a daughter rather older than 
Eunice, asking her to go and see her and find out 
a little about her. 

“1 have not asked you to do this before,” he 
wrote, “because I had every reason to believe that 
Eunice was perfectly happy and well cared for at 
the Parmeters’. But it is only lately that it has 
come to my knowledge that they are a Roman 
Catholic family, and I feel a little anxious lest they 
should take advantage of their position in regard to 
her to bring her up in a knowledge of their own 
faith.” 

Lady Eliot had not been in England very long 
when she received Major Dampier’s letter, and she 
had taken a furnished house in Brighton for a few 
months with the object of seeing her eldest daughter 
Mildred, who was at school there. She had for- 
gotten — if, indeed, she had ever known it — that the 
little Dampier girl was living with people in Brigh- 
ton. In the old days she had not cared for Eunice ; 
she was a naughty, troublesome child who led even 
Mildred into mischief when she came to tea with her 
and could always, be relied upon to make an un- 
pleasant scene. She did not greatly desire to renew 
her acquaintance with her nor to ask her to tea again 
with Mildred on half-holidays. But she liked Major 
Dampier, of whom her husband. Sir Alaric Eliot, 
had a very high opinion ; and she felt that there was 
nothing ^to be done but to write to Mrs. Parmeter 
and say that she would like very much to see Eunice, 
having heard from her father that the child was 
living with them. Lady> Eliot was a woman with 
strongly High-Church views, and she felt capable of 
wresting Eunice from any insidious Roman Catholic 
influence. 


126 


EUNICE 


Mrs. Parmeter had received no instructions from 
Mrs. Dampier concerning Eunice’s religious educa- 
tion. When she first came to live with them she 
always went to church with Miss Jones on Sundays 
and joined the Parmeter family on the Front after- 
ward. But for a few months Eunice had been going 
daily to a school in Brighton not very far from Bruns- 
wick Terrace, and Miss Jones did not come to teach 
her any more. When these changes had taken place 
it was simpler to take Eunice to the Catholic church, 
and indeed she had begged hard to be allowed to 
accompany them. It was during the Christmas holi- 
days when she had been there rather more than a 
year that she first began to question Julian on the 
subject of religion. The boys by that time were 
going to a big Catholic school in the south of Eng- 
land. Eunice was beginning to love in an ignorant, 
uncomprehending way the ceremonies of High Mass, 
which were now fairly familiar to her; she liked the 
sense of deep mystery, the melodious Latin prayers ; 
she even listened attentively to the sermon. But she 
was irritated by her own inability to understand it 
all more perfectly, and she made up her mind to ask 
Julian when next he came home. 

She missed Julian when he was away, as she would 
have missed a brother for whom she had not hitherto 
realized her affection, but by this time she had grown 
very devoted both to Mr. and Mrs. Parmeter, and 
was even jealous of the boys when they returned 
from school, dispossessing her from her position as 
the only child of the house. She would doubtless 
have grown selfish but for these home-comings and 
for the rough-and-tumble that they entailed, the 
sparring with Geoffrey, and the piqued impatience 
evoked within her by Julian’s dumb devotion, which 
had such queer, subtle limits. 

His school reports were all in Geoffrey’s favor. 


EUNICE 


127 


He was a brilliant boy of whom great things were 
prophesied; he was a favorite with everyone; he 
worked hard, was good at games. Julian plodded 
behind. After their first term they were never again 
in the same class. He witnessed without resentment 
or envy Geoffrey’s triumphal progress from form to 
form. It was all done so apparently without effort 
that Julian could only think he had a special gift for 
the kind of work that was asked of him. And he 
himself felt that he had not the slightest aptitude for 
any of it. The only thing he cared about was litera- 
ture and that which commonly accompanies a taste 
for it — a love of languages. But even here he 
never excelled; work with him was a perpetual 
struggle. 

He was an oddly devout boy, and scarcely ever 
missed accompanying his mother to Mass in the 
early morning. They walked side by side, scarcely 
saying a word, yet their intimacy was deeper than 
ever before. There was no need for speech. But 
one morning on the way home he said suddenly: 

“Eunice wants to learn something about the 
Catholic religion. Do you think I could teach her?” 

“Yes, you could tell her a little about it if she 
really wants to learn,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“I must have a book,” he said, “I couldn’t teach 
her out of my head.” 

In the winter holidays Geoffrey often played 
hock^, and there were many afternoons when Julian 
and Eunice were sent out for walks together. Al- 
though he was only ten years old, he was absolutely 
to be trusted to take care of Eunice and she was 
perfectly good with him. Sometimes on these walks 
he would take her into a Catholic church; he would 
purposely walk past one and then say: “Would you 
like to come in for a few minutes, Eunice?” She 
never refused, but always entered and knelt by his 


128 


EUNICE 


side, saying the prayers he had taught her very de- 
voutly. When Julian spoke of religion his eyes 
shone and he was different and looked more alive. 
It was a strange thing, but Eunice in after years 
never forgot those first lessons nor the curiously 
simple explanations he gave her. It was only much 
later that she learnt to be astonished that he knew 
so much. 

She longed to get up early and go to Mass with 
him and his mother, but something held her back 
from proposing it. She had been quick to see how 
dear they were to each other and felt that they did 
not want any one else to accompany them, yet she 
knew they would have welcomed Geoffrey who, how- 
ever, preferred to sleep late in the morning. 

The Christmas holidays were over, and Eunice 
had begun also to go to school daily when a letter 
came from Lady Eliot to Mrs. Parmeter. She was 
quite unsuspecting and imagined that the Dampiers 
were only actuated by a very natural desire to hear 
something of their child from one of their own 
friends. And she felt that she would have a real 
pride in showing Eunice to Lady Eliot. She was 
looking charmingly pretty, with her brilliant dark 
eyes, her engaging smile. She was wonderfully 
tractable, too, and scarcely ever showed any signs of 
her old ungovernable temper, her aptitude for deceit 
and intrigue. Although she still wrote to her 
parents every mail — a point upon which Mrs. Par- 
meter had to be quite insistent — she very rarely 
talked about them, and it was evident that they were 
fading a little from her mind. Her mother’s letters 
— which were now rather rare — did not particularly 
interest her, and her father’s, though tender and 
affectionate, failed to recall him in any way to her. 
Whenever Julian saw those letters and postcards 
with the Indian stamp upon them he had an icy feel- 


EUNICE 


129 


ing of fear that they would contain the news he so 
dreaded — that the Dampiers intended to come home 
and take Eunice away from them. For, of course, 
that must happen one of these days. It was only 
wonderful that it had not happened long ago. . . 
Yet it was one of those things that he felt did not 
bear thinking of. It was impossible to picture life 
without Eunice, and even Geoffrey had become so 
used to having her there that he treated her in the 
easy, patronizing way he would have treated Baby 
Sister had she lived. 

She admired Geoffrey, with his handsome face, his 
touch of swagger. But she loved Julian tenderly; 
he was still her friend, who could be relied upon to 
take her part even when he knew she was in the 
wrong. 

Lady Eliot was invited to tea. She was a hand- 
some woman, slightly older than Mrs. Parmeter, 
and she had married when very young a man much 
older than herself. The marriage had turned out 
happily, and their only regret was that among their 
four children, there was no son. Of these children 
Mildred was the eldest, and as she was eight years 
older than her next sister people often erroneously 
supposed that they were of different families. But 
the truth was that there had been no other child but 
Mildred for all that time, and then the three babies, 
as they were called, had followed each other as 
speedily as possible. From an early dislike of 
maternity Lady Eliot had suddenly developed quite 
a cult for it, and she was delighted when a new 
nursery became necessary to hold first one and then 
two and then three tumultuous inmates. She had 
never adored her staid, phlegmatic eldest daughter 
as she did these troublesome, beautiful babies that 
now absorbed nearly all her time and thoughts. As 
soon as she saw Mrs. Parmeter she took a strong 


130 


EUNICE 


liking for her. She thought to herself: “She must 
come and see my babies.” She was intensely proud 
of them. 

Lady Eliot was a tall, elegant-looking w^oman with 
raven dark hair and enormous black eyes. The day 
was cold and she was enveloped in dark furs that 
well suited her beauty. 

“It is so kind of you to ask me to come to see 
Eunice, Mrs. Parmeter,” she said, realizing that the 
very definite purpose for which she had come would 
require the exercise of much diplomatic talent. 
Quite obviously Mrs. Parmeter was not a woman 
who could be treated dictatorially ; it was only sur- 
prising that any one with her wealth and in her 
position especially — should have undertaken the 
charge of another person’s child, especially — as was 
most probable — for payment. She could certainly 
have no need to eke out her income by taking Anglo- 
Indian children, and she could not be a family friend, 
as Major Dampier was evidently unacquainted with 
her. 

They talked for a little while about Eunice, and 
Mrs. Parmeter told her visitor how she had first met 
Mrs. Dampier and her little girl in Rome. The 
children had made friends and they had subsequently 
come across her after their return to Brighton. 
Lady Eliot was shown the last new photographs of 
the twins. She expressed much admiration for 
Geoffrey, though adding that she expected Julian was 
the cleverer of the two. 

“But he isn’t,” said Mrs. Parmeter, “at least, he 
has not shown any signs of it yet. He’s miles behind 
Geoffrey.” 

“I have always longed for a son,” said Lady 
Eliot, “I could hardly forgive my last two babies for 
being girls. But they are such darlings I was not 
able to be angry with them for more than about five 


EUNICE 


131 

minutes ! You must come to see them one day, Mrs. 
Parmeter. I am so proud of them. What sort of 
child is Eunice now? She was a dreadfully, 
naughty, sly little thing when we knew her in India.” 

“Oh, she’s hardly ever naughty now,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. “When the boys are away and she is 
the only child at home you would hardly know there 
was one in the house. We are all devoted to her — 
even my husband, who is not very fond of children 
as a rule.” 

“It was very courageous of you to undertake the 
charge of her,” said Lady Eliot, who wondered how 
Mrs. Parmeter had been prevailed upon to accept 
the responsibility. 

“Well, I could hardly do otherwise. Major 
Dampier sent for his wife in rather a hurry, and she 
had so little time for making arrangements. It was 
all settled very quickly, but we stipulated that it was 
to come to an end in six months if it did not prove to 
be a success.” 

“And you are quite satisfied?” said Lady Eliot. 

“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Parmeter, “it has been an 
additional happiness to us all to have her here.” 
She spoke so simply and sincerely that Lady Eliot 
could not but perceive that Eunice had fallen among 
people who actually appreciated her. 

“Her father is a very charming man, but he made 
the mistake of his life when he married that common 
little woman. It has hindered him very much in 
his career, and I am afraid he has lived to repent it. 
I never liked Eunice as a little child — she used to 
upset the whole house when she came to tea, but even 
I used to pity her from the bottom of my heart for 
the way in which her mother treated her.” 

“Perhaps you will think we have gone to the other 
extreme,” said Mrs. Parmeter smiling, “for I think 
we are inclined to spoil her.” 


132 


EUNICE 


She rang the bell and sent for Eunice to come 
down to the drawing room. Eunice came reluct- 
antly, for she was sitting upstairs in Mr. Parmeter’s 
study; the half hour dedicated to solid reading was 
at an end, and she was deeply engrossed in a new 
and delightful story-book, when the summons 
reached her. Mrs. Parmeter had told her that very 
likely she would be wanted to come down and see a 
friend of her father’s. 

Eunice had small curiosity to see this unknown 
lady, and she was aggrieved at the interruption ; still, 
she came into the room looking pleasant enough. 
She wore a white dress of some soft woolen stuff and 
she looked extremely dainty and well cared for. 

“Well, Eunice,” said Lady Eliot, in her bright 
way, “you don’t remember me, I suppose.” 

“I’m not sure. Aren’t you Mildred’s mother?” 
Her memory was a little confused, but Mildred was 
one of the few children she had seen much of in those 
far-off days. 

“Yes, I am Mildred’s mother,” said Lady Eliot, 
a little pleased to think she had not been quite for- 
gotten. “I am very glad you remember us. I hope 
you will come to tea with Mildred one day.” 

“Has she still got a monkey and a parrot?” asked 
Eunice. 

Lady Eliot laughed. “No, the parrot died and 
we left the monkey behind. How well you re- 
member.” 

“Julian’s always trying to make me remember 
things that happened long ago,” said Eunice, “it isn’t 
easy at first.” 

“Do you go to school?” asked Lady Eliot. 

“Yes, every day.” 

“What a pity you don’t go to the same school as 
Mildred. We must try to persuade Mrs. Parmeter 
to let you go there.” 


EUNICE 


133 

“I like my school,” said Eunice. “Where does 
Mildred go?” 

“To Miss Woolton’s. There are only about ten 
boarders, but in exceptional cases she will take a day 
gir^’ 

“I think Eunice is making good progress with her 
lessons. Her father told her in one of his letters 
that he thought she was writing very nicely.” Mrs. 
Parmeter felt a little vague irritation at the touch 
of interference; she felt as if something must lie be- 
hind it. 

“I was thinking how charming it would be for the 
girls to study together, though of course Mildred is 
a few years older,” said Lady Eliot. “She is rather 
backward for her age.” She turned to Eunice, 
“When you knew Mildred she was the only child, 
wasn’t she? Now she has three little sisters.” 

“Has she?” said Eunice in a slightly awed tone. 
“Do you think I shall ever have any sisters?” 

“I should think It was highly improbable,” said 
Lady Eliot laughing a little. 

Presently Eunice was sent upstairs again and Lady 
Eliot found courage to come to the point. 

“Major Dampier had no idea until recently that 
you were all Roman Catholics,” she said. “He 
appreciates very much all you have done for his little 
girl — he is assured from the tone of her letters that 
she is very happy with you. But the long and short 
of It Is — he asks me to speak to you for him on the 
subject of Eunice’s religion.” 

Mrs. Parmeter colored slightly; she had never 
expected any little attack of the kind. It gave her a 
shock, too, to know that Major Dampier had been 
kept In complete Ignorance on the point. She had 
imagined that in this respect she was at liberty to 


134 


EUNICE 


bring up Eunice as she chose, and the little girl had 
shown that eagerness to learn about the Catholic 
faith which sometimes characterizes brilliant, ad- 
vanced children. There had been no special rules 
given to her upon the subject and Mrs. Dampier had 
shown her quite definitely that she herself was abso- 
lutely indifferent as to whether Eunice was brought 
up a Catholic or not. To learn, therefore, in this 
sudden, unexpected fashion that Major Dampier 
did object, and was anxious on the point, was rather 
a shock to her. She had trained Eunice exactly as 
if she had been a child of her own, with the exception 
that it was impossible to prepare her for the sacra- 
ments of the Church, as would have been the case 
had she been baptized a Catholic. 

“Mrs. Dampier gave me no instructions on the 
point,” she said, a little haughtily, “she left me under 
the impression it was a matter of total indifference 
to her.” 

“So I am sure it was. But Major Dampier is a 
man with strong views — he is not at all like his 
wife. I do not think you can go against him in the 
matter.” 

“I should never dream of going against him,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter. 

“That is why I suggested Eunice should go to the 
same school as my little girl. Great attention is 
paid to the subject of religion, in fact the children 
are brought up to full Catholic practices, and if the 
parents wish there is auricular confession, and a 
chaplain attends for this purpose. But on such a 
point as that it would be as well to discover Major 
Dampier’s wishes first.” 

“I shall write to him,” said Mrs. Parmeter, “I 
shall tell him how sorry I am that he did not know 


EUNICE 


135 

we were Catholics. Perhaps he will think it advis- 
able to place Eunice elsewhere.” 

“Oh, I am sure he would not do that!” cried Lady 
Eliot, “homes like the one you are able to give her 
are not to be had for the asking! Eunice could 
never have had such comfort and luxury while she 
was with her parents — they are not at all well off — 
and then Mrs. Dampier is always running into debt. 
Oh, it is not a secret — every one out there knows 
about it. She has brought him more than once to 
the verge of ruin.” 

She rose to go. “I am sure you won’t be offended 
at anything I have said,” she remarked sweetly. 
“But I could not refuse poor Major Dampier’s re- 
quest that I should come and see you about it. 
Naturally, he did not quite like to write — especially 
after all your kindness.” 

“Oh, I am not in the least offended,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. “It is true that Eunice has always gone 
to Mass with us on Sundays, that is, ever since her 
governess left. And I know she had talked to my 
little boy on the subject — he is a very devout child. 
But I told Mrs. Dampier from the first that natu- 
rally Eunice would be under Catholic influences while 
she was with us. Even if she did not go to church 
with us there would always be the Catholic atmos- 
phere of our home.” 

< “I quite understand,” said Lady Eliot, politely. 
She felt that Mrs. Parmeter was very sincere, very 
much in earnest. She looked like a woman who was 
guided by lofty spiritual ideals. And certainly to 
all outward appearance Eunice Dampier was com- 
pletely changed. She had a tranquil, happy look 
that she had never had in the old days. If Major 
Dampier could see her now he would surely be 
abundantly satisfied. 


136 


EUNICE 

CHAPTER XV 


W HEN Julian returned home for the summer holi- 
days that year he soon became aware of 
disquieting changes. Eunice’s holidays had begun, 
too, and now she went to another school so as to be 
with the girl of whom she spoke so constantly, Mil- 
dred Eliot. For Lady Eliot had prevailed upon 
Major Dampler to take her advice In the matter, and 
place Eunice as a day-girl In the same school as her 
own daughter for the sake of the mutual companion- 
ship. It is true that he wrote to Mrs. Parmeter, 
asking that If possible this might be done, and saying 
that It was his wish that Eunice should go to church 
In future with the Eliots. “In the autumn,” he 
added, “my wife and I are hoping to come home for 
a few months, and then we can talk things over, and 
if necessary make other plans for the future. But 
I feel I can not thank you enough for all you have 
done for our little girl.” 

So when Julian returned home he found that he 
saw less of Eunice than formerly; she was much 
more with the Eliots, often spending the long sum- 
mer afternoons in company with her friend. There 
was indeed no reason why she should not, but it was 
her very eagerness to go that smote Julian with a 
sense of pain. Eunice was younger than Mildred, 
though she was far more clever and left her behind 
at school, rather to Lady Eliot’s disgust; still, she 
imitated her sedulously and frequently quoted her. 

On the first Sunday after the boys had returned, 
Julian came into the hall when It was time to start 
for church and found Eunice standing there in her 
new summer clothes, carrying a white prayer-book 
very different from the one he had given her. 

“Are you ready, Eunice? Shall we push off?” 


EUNICE 


137 


“You can walk with me to the Eliots’ if you like,” 
said Eunice, “I am going to church with Mildred.” 

“With Mildred?” he repeated. His face fell a 
little, for the disappointment was sharp and two- 
edged. “Why aren’t you coming with us?” 

“Lady Eliot explained to me that I ought to go to 
the church I belong to. She doesn’t approve of 
Anglicans going to Roman Catholic churches.” 

“And are you an Anglican, Eunice?” he said, with 
a touch of bitterness. 

“I suppose so. The Eliots are, and mamma al- 
ways went to the same church as they did when she 
went at all.” 

“But I thought you liked coming with us,” he said. 

“Oh, I didn’t mind. It was all right then. But 
now I’m friends with Mildred, and I like to go with 
her.” 

Julian said no more. He opened the front door 
and they went out into the street. The August day 
was dull, there was a grey, stormy sky; some sea- 
gulls were flying low and restlessly over the tumbling, 
dark green waves with their yellow crests of foam. 
The air smelt strongly of seaweed. 

“Last holidays,” he reminded her as they walked 
along side by side, “you said you’d like to be a 
Catholic when you grew older.” 

“Lady Eliot doesn’t approve of people changing 
their religion. She gave me quite a scolding when 
I first went there. She doesn’t let Mildred go inside 
a Catholic church, and she begged me not to again. 
I wouldn’t promise, though, because I’d been so 
often ; I didn’t think there would be any harm in my 
going In with you.” 

It seemed to be quite final, and if his mother had 
not interfered he felt certain that she must have an 
adequate reason for letting Lady Eliot have her own 
way in the matter. 


138 


EUNICE 


“Do you care so much for these people — for what 
they say and think?’’ he asked in a hurt tone. 

“Yes,” admitted Eunice. 

“More than for us?” he timidly suggested. 

“What a silly question! I live with all of you. 
It’s a different thing.” 

He left her at the door of the house in King’s 
Gardens where the Eliots lived, and walked on to the 
Catholic church, which was not very far away. 

On their way home that morning, as they were 
walking on the Lawns, he said suddenly to his 
mother: 

“Why do you let Eunice go to church with the 
Eliots?” 

“Her father wished it. He thinks it is better for 
her, now she’s getting older,” she answered. 

“But she’s been going with us for ages,” he said. 

“Yes, I know, dear.” 

“But I thought you arranged everything?” 

“Not this,” she admitted, “I have to do what 
Major Dampier wishes. Lady Eliot is a friend of 
his.” 


He was distressed at the sudden change. “She 
won’t want to learn any more about our religion 
now,” he said disconsolately. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Parmeter. “And 
Julip, you niust be prepared for greater changes. 
Major Dampier is coming home in the autumn, and 
he may want to take Eunice away from us al- 
together.” 


“Take her — do you mean — ^back to India?” he 
stammered out. 

I should hardly think so. But he may prefer 
she should live with people who are not Catholics.” 
“It’ll be jolly hard on us if he does,” said Tulian 

if , , . 


EUNICE 


139 


to take Eunice away from them. She was different, 
somehow ; her thoughts were so completely occupied 
with these new friends of hers. 

Julian was always afraid of changes; he would 
have liked things — pleasant, agreeable things — to 
go on unaltered forever. In this he differed com- 
pletely from Geoffrey, who adored novelty even if 
it were not altogether to his liking. 

* * * 

Mrs. Parmeter was thankful that Julian had gone 
back to school when she received a letter from 
Major Dampier saying that he and his wife were 
on their way home and might be expected in Brighton 
about the middle of October. Not a word was said 
about any other arrangements being made for Eunice 
in the future; evidently they were waiting to decide 
such plans until they had seen her again. It would 
be a relief to get the interview over, and possibly 
Eunice would go away with her parents for a few 
weeks. It would break into the term, but that could 
hardly be helped under the circumstances. Eunice 
was wild with delight when she heard the news. To 
Mildred she confided the hope that now she would 
return to live with them altogether. She was fully 
aware that her lot differed from that of most of the 
children she knew, because she did not live with her 
own parents. She was at a conventional age, when 
she liked to be as other people. Mildred shook her 
head. She was less sure that it would be a change 
for the better. 

Mildred was a heavily-built girl of twelve with a 
large fair face and pale sandy hairf She was not at 
all pretty, and she was decidedly stupid at her 
lessons, but she had a fund of common sense which 
often served to modify Eunice’s wild imaginings. 

“They are not very well off, you know,” she said, 


140 


EUNICE 


quoting from some imprudent words let drop by 
Lady Eliot, “and you won’t have nearly such a nice 
home with them as you have here. It’s odd that the 
Parmeters should ever have taken you in this way. 
They can’t be in want of money.” 

“Well, I’ve been here nearly two years and I want 
a change,” said Eunice. “It’s dull always living in 
the same place with the same people, although I’m 

very fond of them, of course ” She stopped, 

thinking of Julian. 

Mildred waited a moment and then said : 

“Do you remember your mother, Eunice?” 

“Of course I do — quite well. And my father 
too,” said Eunice. 

Mildred privately believed that there would be a 
considerable disillusionment in store for Eunice when 
she returned to her parents. She had heard her 
mother speak with some dislike of Mrs. Dampier. 

“Was she always kind to you?” asked Mildred, 
wondering if Eunice really remembered as clearly as 
she supposed. 

“Kind? What do you mean? I suppose she 
was kind.” 

“Kind as Mrs. Parmeter?” pursued Mildred, a 
little relentlessly. 

“Oh, in a different way,” said Eunice, coloring 
slightly. There was a certain episode which had 
taken place in Rome that remained rather sharply 
in her memory. But of course that kind of thing 
could never happen to her now — she was too old. 
And she didn’t behave like that any more. She felt 
almost grown-up in contrast to that little Eunice of 
nearly two years ago. 

Still, Mildred’s words had made her feel uncom- 
fortable — almost as if she had some secret knowl- 
edge of her mother. 


EUNICE 


141 

One morning when she came down to breakfast 
Mrs. Parmeter said to her: 

“You’re not to go to school this morning, Eunice. 
I’ve had a telegram from your father — they’ll be 
here soon after twelve, and I want you to be in when 
they come.” 

Eunice sprang up and flung her arms round Mrs. 
Parmeter’s neck. 

“Oh, darling Mrs. Parmeter — how lovely it will 
be I Do you think I shall go away with them this 
very day?” 

“Why, no dear, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter, “but I’m sure they’ll want you to go to them 
very soon.” 

She had been too fond of Eunice not to feel a little 
hurt at the child’s eagerness to go to these people 
who were now almost strangers to her. 

Eunice flattened her nose — as the saying is — 
against tl^e panes of the dining-room window most 
of the morning in her intense anxiety to catch the 
first glimpse of the cab holding her father and 
mother. All the time she was trying to “remember 
far back,” as Julian called it, but her father’s face 
always eluded her. Just an impression of a tall, 
kind man who was always gentle, and then for the 
rest his features had become confused with those of 
Norman Parmeter. She could make a more definite 
mental picture of her mother. But it was Major 
Dampier whom she most wished to see. It would 
be lovely to have a real live father again. She 
hoped he would take her to London with him. She 
had hardly ever been to London, and Mildred, who 
had lived there, was inclined to patronize her on the 
point. In the midst of her excitement she could 
still weave agreeable dreams for the future. 

At last a cab stopped and in the clear golden light 


142 


EUNICE 


of the October day a man descended. No second 
figure followed him, and Eunice felt a sharp stab of 
disappointment, realizing that if this tall, white- 
haired man was indeed her father, her mother had 
not accompanied him. It gave her a little shock to 
see his snowy head; it made him look so venerable, 
so unspeakably old, in contrast to, say, Mr. Par- 
meter. Seeing her at the window he waved his hand 
and ran lightly up the steps to the front door. In 
another moment Eunice felt herself gathered in a 
tremendous embrace, powerful, possessive, and al- 
most alarming. His strong arms held her im- 
prisoned; his hard, rather rough, cheek was pressed 
against hers. When at last he released her she 
heard his voice for the first time. “My Eunice I 
My darling child!” 

It was a relief to be released; she was out of 
breath, and the tension of the situation made her feel 
embarrassed. Mr. Parmeter’s gentle kiss on her 
forehead when he bade her good-night had not pre- 
pared her for her father’s more demonstrative 
action. And this was her father, this giant of a man 
with the white hair and dark eyes, who seemed to 
her almost terrible in his strangeness I It came into 
her mind that if she had to go away with him alone 
she would feel actually afraid. It was a very sub- 
dued little Eunice that guided him up to Mrs. Par- 
meter’s presence in the drawing-room. 

“Hasn’t Mrs. Dampier come?” she asked when 
the first greetings had been exchanged. Eunice 
stood there demurely; her father had taken hold of 
her hand again and was clasping it tightly, almost 
as if he were afraid she might run away. 

“No, she was unable to. She sent you her ex- 
cuses. She didn’t feel well — had a bad headache. 
She didn’t feel up to leaving London so soon.” He 
seemed to say the words in an unconvinced tone, as 


EUNICE 


143 


if aware how wretched were the excuses proffered. 
For had she not been parted from her only child for 
nearly two years? An adoring mother would not 
have let a slight headache, a little fatigue, come 
between her and that long delayed meeting. 

“Oh, I am sorry. She must be so longing to see 
Eunice again. Shall you want to take her back with 
you to-day?” 

Major Dampier hesitated. “I’m afraid not,” he 
said, “her mother doesn’t expect me to do that. She 
thought she had better stay here for a day or two, 
until she can come down to see her and talk over 
things with you. One has always so much to do 
when one first arrives.” 

Even now there was something halting in this 
statement. But Eunice’s relief was intense. The 
picture she had formed of her father had been so 
erroneous that she was afraid the one she treasured 
of her mother might prove equally so. Mildred’s 
sinister suggestion as to the preferability of the Par- 
meters’ house recurred to her mind with unpleasant 
persistency. What if after all she had been right? 

She wished she had been able to feel that she be- 
longed to this strange man and not to her beloved 
Mrs. Parmeter who stood there watching her with 
such kind eyes. Perhaps something of the child’s 
bitter disappointment had penetrated to her sym- 
pathetic mind ; she knew that Eunice had been long- 
ing to see her mother. She must mercifully have 
forgotten the kind of treatment she used to receive 
at her hands. 

“Of course, I should hardly have known her again. 
It’s three years nearly since she came home. And 
she’s much taller for her age than she used to be. 
She looks more than nine years old.” He surveyed 
her with appreciative eyes. She was prettier than 
she used to be ; her expression was sweeter, she had 


144 


EUNICE 


the face of a child at once happy and good. When 
in the old days had Eunice ever been both happy and 
good? 

“Yes, she is nearly as tall as Geoffrey, who will 
soon be eleven,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“Is she? You have twin sons, haven’t you? 
They have figured a good deal in Eunice’s letters.” 
He smiled as he spoke. 

As he sat there in the big armchair he drew the 
child to him and made her sit close to him, holding 
her hand in his. She was beginning to lose her first 
fear of him. Perhaps it was the presence of Mrs. 
Parmeter that gave her such a comforting sense of 
security. And, anyhow, she wasn’t going away with 
him to-day. That ordeal would be for a future 
occasion. She supposed she would get more used to 
him in time. It was difficult all at once to love a 
strange person just because he was your father. 

“I think we may settle for the winter in London,” 
he said, “and then of course Eunice must come to us. 
We shall be house-hunting next week, I suppose. 
And my wife feels the cold — she is buying herself 
some winter things.” He stopped short, hoping 
Mrs. Parmeter would not discern the real reason 
for Mrs. Dampier’s absence to-day. 

“Eunice will be ready to go whenever you send 
for her,” said Mrs. Parmeter pleasantly. 

She was beginning to feel an obscure conviction 
that the Dampier menage was not thriving satisfac- 
torily. The man, for all the hardcut sternness of 
his face, looked restless and unhappy. The wistful 
glances he bestowed from time to time upon the 
child by his side assured her that it was not through 
any fault of his that Eunice was debarred from re- 
turning with him that very day. 

Luncheon was announced and Mr. Parmeter 
appeared, very vague and absent-minded, his head 


EUNICE 


145 


full of a new poem, but anxious too to make helpful 
suggestions as to the way in which the afternoon 
could best be spent. But Major Dampier had evi- 
dently evolved his own program and said it was 
absolutely necessary that he should go and call upon 
Lady Eliot. Mrs. P meter suspected a desire on 
his part to unburden himself before this old friend, 
who knew more of his domestic affairs than she did. 
And, of course, he would take Eunice — he looked at 
her, and Eunice for the first time flashed one of her 
radiant smiles upon him. It won an answering smile 
from him that lit up his stern worn face and lent 
sudden fire to his dark, smouldering eyes. 

After lunch, when Eunice had gone upstairs to put 
on her coat and hat, he found himself alone for a 
few minutes with Mrs. Parmeter. All the details of 
the slightly complicated meal which had just been 
served, as well as the general aspect of the house, 
with its cosy and luxurious comfort, had assured him 
that these were indeed rich people who all these 
years had had charge of his child. He said 
abruptly: “You must forgive my saying so, Mrs. 
Parmeter, but I feel you have been giving Eunice 
more than I shall ever be able to offer her. I only 
hope that she’s too young to feel the difference too 
much.” 

“I have brought her up very simply. She has 
learned to do everything for herself. Of course, I 
let the maid brush her hair,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 
She thought perhaps his eyes were still unaccustomed 
to the usual comfort of a well-kept English house. 
“I’m sure Eunice will be perfectly happy. She has 
been so looking forward to your coming.” 

“I hope she won’t be disappointed with us!” he 
said half bitterly, and all the lines in his face deep- 
ened. 


146 


EUNICE 


“Oh, I’m quite certain she won’t I” she told him 
lightly. “And I’m sure you will find she is a very 
good child. She hardly ever loses her temper now, 
unless Geoffrey teases her, which I’m sorry to say 
he does sometimes. And I dare say you remember 
what a passionate small child she used to be I” 

“Indeed I do,” he said with a half-smile at the 
remembrance, “and the scrapes it used to get her 
into. She’s a beautiful little thing, isn’t she? I 
was quite surprised — she never promised to be as 
pretty as all that. And she’s got such pretty 
ways — ” He broke off and stifled a sigh that was 
almost a groan. 

“We all think her very pretty,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter. She wanted desperately to say something to 
comfort him; she was certain that he was unhappy 
and that Mrs. Dampier had made him so. 

It was a relief when Eunice returned. 

“Are you ready? Shall we start?” he said, look- 
ing at the trim little figure. 

“Yes, papa,” said Eunice. 

She had been repeating the words to herself so as 
to say them easily. For of course she must call him 
papa, just as she used to : she felt that perhaps by 
so doing she might lessen the gulf of strangeness 
that lay so gloomily between them. 

She put her hand in his and the voluntary little 
action seemed to please him, for he stooped suddenly 
and kissed her. 

Mrs. Parmeter, standing at the window, saw them 
walk across the road together and go down toward 
the Front. The man still held the child’s hand in 
his, and her face was tilted a little toward him. She 
was sure that very soon they would become friends 
again. It had been a difficult meeting for both of 
them, and he seemed to be perplexed about his child’s 


EUNICE 


147 


future. There were complications in his life to 
which as yet she had little clue. But inevitably they 
would also affect Eunice. 


CHAPTER XVI 

M ildred was at school when the Dampiers ar- 
rived at the house in King’s Gardens, but Lady 
Eliot soon found a pretext to banish Eunice to the 
nursery to play with her “darling babies,” as she 
expressed it. She knew that Major Dampier would 
wish to talk to her alone. 

“I’m delighted with my little girl,” he told her, 
when Eunice had left the room, and as he spoke his 
stern face relaxed into a smile. 

“She’s a charming child,” said Lady Eliot. 
“What does her mother think of her?” 

“She hasn’t seen her yet,” he answered with some 
reluctance, “you see she wasn’t able to come down 
to-day.” 

“Not able to come? I hope she isn’t ill?” 

He shook his head. “Shops,” he said laconically. 
Lady Eliot was, he felt, too old a hand to be put 
off with the feminine excuse of a headache. 

“I’m delighted too with all I’ve seen of the Par- 
meters,” he resumed after a little pause. 

“Oh yes, they are nice people,” she admitted. 
“They seem really fond of her. And she looks 
happy. What about the religion, Lady Eliot? I 
saw signs of it all over the place. More than the 
usual amount of Italian Madonnas and statues and 
holy-water stoups. One wasn’t allowed to forget 
it — even in the drawing-room! They didn’t mind, 
did they?” 

“I think it was a disappointment, though Mrs. 
Parmeter said very little,” replied Lady Eliot. 


148 


EUNICE 


‘‘And IVe given Eunice one or two serious talklngs 
to on the subject. Showed her how wrong it was to 
go to a Roman Catholic church when one wasn’t a 
Roman Catholic. She quite understood. I found 
the elder boy Julian had been teaching her a good 
deal. They begin to proselytize at an early age, 
don’t they? He’s a regular little devot — goes to 
Mass every morning in his holidays. I don’t deny it 
was beginning to influence Eunice. Still, in every 
other respect the arrangement was perfect.” 

“Yes — almost too perfect. I felt obliged to tell 
Mrs. Parmeter that what she’d given her was beyond 
anything we should have been able to do.” 

“Now tell me about yourself,” said Lady Eliot 
encouragingly. 

“There’s not a great deal to tell, except that things 
are going from bad to worse. People want to know 
why I haven’t set foot in England for eight years. 
And how can I tell them I couldn’t afford the trip? 
They know what my pay is and that other chaps 
manage all right on much less. Fact is, Pm over 
head and ears in debt — her debts. And now we are 
back I can’t get her to settle down anywhere and 
have Eunice with her. She wouldn’t come to-day — 
she’s buying a winter kit. She insists on my going 
down to a shoot at Mirton’s place next Saturday. 
He’s a rich man who has spent a week or two with us 
sometimes. Alaric knows him, I think. Pd ten 
times rather come down here and stay for a few 
weeks and have Eunice with us. But she’s bent on 
paying these visits, and heaven only knows what it’s 
going to run us intol” 

Lady Eliot looked very compassionate. Every- 
thing was worse than she had expected, and she had 
never been sanguine. She also had mistrusted that 
prolonged absence, for she knew that Major Dam- 
pier was devoted to his child. 


EUNICE 


149 


“Fm so sorry,” she murmured. 

“I may tell you this in confidence,” he proceeded, 
“I haven’t been able to pay the Parmeters a single 
sou this year. You know they would never accept 
more than just an allowance for her clothes and 
school fees. It’s been a providential arrangement, 
though I’ve hated to think my daughter was almost 
living on charity.” 

‘Why don’t you put your foot down? Why do 
you go to this shoot? Who is this Mirton?” 

“Sir Chandos Mirton? Oh, I thought you must 
have heard of him or met him. He was often about 
in Simla.” 

“It must have been since my time. What sort of 
a man is he?” 

“I know nothing against him,” said Major Dam- 
pier guardedly, “except that I hate him. If I could 
only induce Dulcie to take a cottage somewhere and 
spend our few months of leave quietly and economi- 
cally we could get nearly straight again. But she 
won’t hear of it — says she’s come home to amuse 
herself.” 

There were few people to whom he could ^eak 
so frankly about his affairs as he could to Lady Eliot. 
But he had known her husband since the days when 
he first went to India as a subaltern, and the intimacy 
was an old and deep one, although it had never 
prevailed upon Lady Eliot to make a friend of Mrs. 
Dampier. 

“I suppose, then, you will leave Eunice here for 
the present?” she said. 

“If they’ll keep her. I can hardly bring myself 
to ask them to, under the circumstances. I saw that 
they were quite prepared for me to say I’d come to 
fetch her home. She hasn’t got a home, poor child, 
and isn’t likely to have one, and I don’t like to tell 
them so I” 


150 


EUNICE 


“Oh, I think you might speak quite plainly to Mrs. 
Parmeter,” said Lady Eliot. 

“I can’t explain the position to them — I simply 
can’t,” he said, all his pride in rebellion. “And 
there’s another thing. I don’t want to expose Eunice 
to her mother’s violence. The child is so happy and 
peaceful now in that charming, tranquil home. Yet 
how can I leave her there without explaining? I’ve 
already accepted far too much from them. One 
ought not to shift one’s burdens. And I want my 
child, Lady Eliot. I want to know her better — to 
win her love. She seemed almost afraid of me at 
first.” 

He was becoming tragic in the recital of his woes, 
it made her say lightly : 

“Well, you know you are rather a terrifying-look- 
ing person I” 

It won a vague smile from him. 

“Am I? I should have thought this white head 
would give me a venerable, benevolent look!” 

“No — you’re too young for that.” She contem- 
plated him with an amused, ironical scrutiny. He 
was changed, and there were lines of worry in his 
bronzed face, but he was still very handsome and she 
thought that the white hair rather improved his 
appearance than otherwise. He had certainly been 
one of the handsomest young men she had ever seen, 
in the old days when his locks were jet-black and his 
keen eyes full of fire. But somehow she liked him 
better now. 

“I wish you had seen the Parmeter twins,” she 
said, changing the subject. “Julian is the weirdest 
little chap — like a little old man. But Geoffrey is 
a very nice boy, good at everything, and really beau- 
tiful, with his yellow hair and blue eyes. Eunice, I 
gather, prefers Julian. He never teases her, as 


EUNICE 


151 

Geoffrey sometimes does. You see, I hear all this 
gossip through my little girl.” 

“Yes, I should like to have seen the boys, but 
perhaps I shall in the Christmas holidays. Some- 
thing must be arranged by then.” His tone, how- 
ever, was the reverse of hopeful and it made Lady 
Eliot attempt to turn his mind to other topics by 
saying : 

“You’d like to see my darling babies, wouldn’t 
you?” 

No one had ever as yet had the hardihood to de- 
cline this honor, and Lady Eliot, without waiting for 
a reply, rose and rang the bell. Very soon after- 
ward the babies were brought down from the nursery 
in the custody of two prim nurses in starched white 
garments, and followed by Eunice. 

The two elder ones could toddle, the third had 
still to be carried. They were all three extraor- 
dinarily alike and all resembled their mother, 
having her dark, brilliant coloring. For the rest 
they were extremely fat and apple-cheeked, as it is 
incumbent upon English babyhood to be. 

“Jane and Sara and Susan,” said Lady Eliot, tap- 
ping each one in turn lightly on the cheek as she thus 
designated them. “I had got over my passion for 
more romantic names by the time they came into the 
world, and I now like the old ones much better. 
Jane, take your thumb out of your mouth, my own 
precious I Sara, say how do you do nicely to 
Eunice’s papa. My beautiful little Susan!” She 
clasped the baby, a black-eyed, red-cheeked cherub, 
in her arms, cooing all manner of baby-talk into her 
uncomprehending ears. They all deserve slapping 
for not being boys I Susan, why weren’t you a little 
boy?” She held her up above her own head with 
her slight, powerful arms. As she spoke she gave 
the child a little shake, which elicited a crow of joy 


152 


EUNICE 


from her. A prolonged embrace rewarded this 
proof of precocious intelligence, during which Major 
Dampier felt that the baby ran some risk of being 
smothered. “Aren’t they lovely? Did you ever 
see three such pictures? Mummy’s own beautiful 
babiesi” 

Major Dampier, who perfectly remembered her 
indifference to Mildred as a little child, was secretly 
astonished at this drastic change of attitude. Still, 
it was very pretty to witness, and he could not help 
admitting to himself that they were far more attrac- 
tive children than Mildred had ever been. 

“Mildred is quite like a little mother to them,” 
said Lady Eliot, who assiduously cultivated this atti- 
tude in her eldest daughter. “One can hardly 
realize she’s their own sister. Well, Eunice, which 
of my babies do you like the best?” 

“I like Jane best,” said the child promptly; “but 
Sara is the prettiest. She is naughty, though.” 

“Naughty? What do you mean? She never 
did anything wrong in her life! Sara, tell Eunice 
not to tell such stories about you!” 

“She hit Jane and Jane cried,” said Eunice simply. 
She had often seen both Jane and Sara when they 
were very naughty indeed, and was astonished at 
such blindness on the part of their parent. 

“Did you hit Jane, my precious?” said Lady Eliot. 

‘‘Yes — hard,” said Sara with a broad smile of 
complete satisfaction. 

“Then you must never do it again. Come and 
kiss Mummy and say you are sorry.” 

“I’se solly,” said the impenitent penitent, giving 
the required embrace. 

“Kiss Jane too. . . ” 

The children kissed each other as if it had been 
part of a game. They hugged each other with such 
force that they were finally upset, and rolled shriek- 


EUNICE 


153 


ing with laughter on the floor. Eunice stepped for- 
ward to help to pick them up. Lady Eliot turned to 
Major Dampier: “Did you ever see such darlings? 
I’m longing for Alaric to come home. He hasn’t 
seen Susan since she was six weeks old!” 

Major Dampier felt that the discussion of his own 
affairs was now indefinitely postponed. He there- 
fore rose to go. 

“Eunice, are you ready?” 

“Yes, papa.” 

Lady Eliot came as far as the door, still carrying 
Susan in her arms. 

“You’ll come on Sunday, won’t you, Eunice?” 

Eunice looked up quickly. 

“ — I don’t think I shall be here on Sunday,” she 
said. “Shall I, papa?” 

“Yes, dear,” he answered. “You will stay in 
Brighton for the present.” 

“Then mind you come. Ask Mrs. Parmeter to 
let you lunch here,” said Lady Eliot. 

“Thank you. Lady Eliot,” said Eunice. She went 
away with her father, feeling at once disappointed 
and relieved. She had talked so much to Mildred 
about her parents’ arrival and how she expected to 
go away at once to join them, and now all these 
dreams had been abruptly destroyed. When she 
saw her to-morrow she would have to make some 
lame explanation, and Mildred would look superior, 
as if she were in possession of some secret knowledge 
denied to Eunice. 

“I’m sorry, Eunice,” said her father on their way 
back to Brunswick Terrace, “that we can’t arrange 
to have you with us at once. But we are going away 
to pay a visit in the country on Saturday, and it’s 
hardly worth while for you to come for a couple of 
days and then be left alone in our present lodgings. 


154 


EUNICE 


You would not find them very comfortable. But 
you shall come later on.” 

He hoped she was still too young to notice any- 
thing strange about this proposed visit that pre- 
vented them from having their only child with them 
at once. But he had expostulated and pleaded and 
remonstrated in vain with his wife. She^^had made 
up her mind to go to Daunton and go she would. 
Let Eunice stay where she was until they were more 
settled. The scene was beginning to be violent 
when he broke off the discussion by saying that he 
would go this time, but that afterward he should 
insist upon having Eunice with them. 

He stayed as late as he could, and was shown 
Eunice’s room and the schoolroom before he went. 
He learned of the hours she was allowed to spend in 
Mr. Parmeter’s study, and half envied this man, 
who had so zealously tried to cultivate her mind. 
But Eunice, feeling that perhaps Mr. Parmeter 
would not like to be disturbed, forbore to take her 
father up to the study. By the time he had to leave, 
the two were already friends and she had recovered 
from her first little fear of him. Still, it was almost 
a relief — in spite of her disappointment — to feel 
that she had not to go away with him this evening. 
He was still a stranger to her and perhaps her 
mother would also prove a stranger to her. At any 
rate, here were safety and unchanging kindness. 
Perhaps it was her first glimpse of that tall, white- 
haired man with the dark eyes and stern face that 
had imbued Eunice with her new dread of the un- 
known. At any rate, she was thankful to go up to 
her room that night, knowing that she would awake 
within its four familiar walls on the morrow. * The 
day of departure was postponed. This thought 
comforted rather than saddened her as she turned 
on her pillow and went to sleep. 


EUNICE 


155 

Mrs. Parmeter stood a little longer than usual 
by her bedside that ^night, watching Eunice as she 
slept. She, too, was relieved and thankful that the 
child was still with them. But it was useless to 
dread a blow that must inevitably fall sooner or 
later. She must learn to face the fact that her 
departure could not be indefinitely postponed now 
that the child’s parents were in England. Mixed 
with her pain there was her quiet pity for Julian, 
who would suffer most of all. 


CHAPTER XVII 

T he visit to Sir Chandos Mirton’s place in 
Gloucestershire on the borders of Oxfordshire 
had not been altogether a success. Some of the 
“county” ladies had indeed looked askance at the 
little Anglo-Indian flirt with the dubious hair and the 
complexion that left no possible room for doubt at 
all. The men were unanimous in liking and pitying 
Major Dampier. 

Sir Chandos, however, seemed perfectly oblivious 
of any defects in his guest, and he showed her 
throughout the visit a very particular attention. 
This was all that Mrs. Dampier required; she almost 
always disliked other women, and called them “cats,” 
and she never cared whether they approved of her 
or not. 

She had made the most of her few days in London, 
and the size of her trunks was the first that aroused 
her husband’s sense of alarm. When he saw the 
varied and beautiful toilettes in which she was suc- 
cessively arrayed during the few and unhappy days 
that followed, he could only groan inwardly, know- 


156 EUNICE 

ing that the day of reckoning must be fast overtaking 
him. 

Of course, he had been weak. During the first 
year or two of their marriage Mrs. Dampier had 
been always charming to him, and he still believed 
that she had loved him. But after Eunice’s birth 
and their return to India she had completely 
changed. Her bad temper had ruined the peace of 
their home, and he had even been alarmed at the 
violence she sometimes displayed toward Eunice. 
In that matter he had imposed his will upon hers, 
and while he was in the house those outbursts were 
at any rate avoided. But he had seen with anguish 
that the child was being ruined by her mother. Even 
at that early age her apt talent for deception was 
manifesting itself, and she seemed to be perfectly 
aware that her parents held conflicting opinions upon 
many points, and especially upon those which con- 
cerned her own education and upbringing. She was 
a sharp little creature, and he had been aware that 
few things escaped her notice. 

Now he was to bring Eunice back to the old 
lamentable environment, intensified and accentuated 
by the lapse of years. He began to dread the day 
of her return, and his wife certainly showed no 
eagerness to precipitate it. She had been in Eng- 
land nearly a fortnight before she said: “I suppose 
you had really better send for Eunice, since you’re 
so anxious to have her?” 

“I’ll run down and fetch her to-day,” he said. 
“Won’t you come, too, Dulcie?” 

“No — I’m lunching out. But you’d better go.” 

She lunched and dined out nearly every day, and 
frequently went to the theater. She seldom con- 
sulted him about her engagements, never telling him 
with whom she was lunching or dining. He only 
knew that he found himself more and more alone as 


EUNICE 


the days went on. He was glad to think that Eunice 
would soon be there to relieve his solitude. 

They had dreary little rooms in a grey, untidy- 
looking street near Victoria Station. Mrs. Dam- 
pier had done nothing to make the place more com- 
fortable or habitable; on the contrary, she left her 
possessions about in an untidy profusion. She never 
received any of her friends there, but invited them to 
tea at her club in the neighborhood of Bond Street. 
She didn’t ask her husband to come on these 
occasions, and he had never set foot inside the place. 

During that journey to London with her father, 
who seemed more at ease with her than he had been 
on the first day, Eunice felt happy and excited. 
They did not talk much in the train, but Major 
Dampier bought several picture-papers for her to 
look at. He was thinking of Mrs. Parmeter’s kind 
last words as they came away: 

“If you should be going away at any time and find 
you can’t take her, mind you send her down to us for 
a few days. We shall always be delighted to see 
her.” 

It was dark when they reached London, and the 
streets were all brilliantly lit. It was a fine Novem- 
ber night with a hint of frost in the keen air. They 
drove to the house and Eunice was lifted down from 
the hansom and stood waiting on the pavement while 
her father paid the cabman and watched her little 
trunk being carried into the house. The open door 
disclosed a narrow passage with a shabby linoleum 
upon the floor ; it was illuminated by a small globe of 
electric light high up in the ceiling. A slovenly- 
looking servant stood there. She shut the door and 
the trunk was left in the passage, while Major Dam- 
pier and Eunice mounted the narrow flight of stairs. 
On the first floor a door stood open and they went 
together into the room. It was small and shabbily 


EUNICE 


158 

furnished and the table was piled with a quantity of 
feminine paraphernalia together with some paper 
parcels that seemed to indicate additional purchases 
of a similar nature. A woman was standing there, 
her face scarcely visible beneath the immense hat she 
was wearing, but Eunice caught a gleam of golden 
hair that struck some remote chord of memory. 

“Oh, there you are, Eunice,” said Mrs. Dampier 
stooping down to kiss the child in an abrupt, per- 
functory manner. “You’ve grown a lot. But what 
a hideous hat — I must get you a decent one to- 
morrow.” 

Eunice felt chilled and snubbed. “It’s my new 
winter hat,” she said. “Mrs. Parmeter chose it for 
me.” 

“Well, I don’t think much of her taste, then,” said 
Mrs. Dampier. “You had better go up to your 
room — it’s the back one on the next floor — you can’t 
mistake it. We shall be having dinner soon.” 

Eunice turned and went out of the room, aware 
that she had been dismissed. She went slowly up- 
stairs and entered the little back bedroom that was 
to be hers. Its bleak aspect struck her with a fresh 
sensation of chill that seemed to affect not only her 
bo^ but her very heart. 

There was no fire in the room, and everything in 
it, including the bed with its dusky white counter- 
pane, looked bleak and chilly. Eunice took off the 
offending hat and smoothed her hair with her hand. 
Then she washed her hands in cold water and sat 
down by the empty fireplace. She had not been five 
minutes in her mother’s presence when she had been 
abruptly told to go upstairs. This, and the un- 
sympathetic surroundings, increased the slowly-grow- 
ing nostalgia which had gradually been taking 
possession of her; she had a sudden fierce longing 
for home. And home was the house in Brunswick 


EUNICE 


159 


Terrace — with Its peace ; its loving, kindly presences; 
its physical warmth and comfort. Mildred had 
been right, perhaps. She was so often right with the 
unimaginative but practical perception of a quite 
stupid but normal person who saw things exactly as 
they were. And Mildred had suggested she was 
better off where she was. 

Eunice choked back her tears. There was within 
her a childish but brave determination to make the 
best of things, and above all not to let her father 
guess that she was unhappy or disappointed. Per- 
haps he had not noticed the coldness of her mother’s 
greeting; perhaps he was accustomed to her ways. 
As she sat there, there was a loud knock at the door, 
and after many bumps and thumps her trunk was 
deposited upon the floor of her room. She took out 
the key and fumbled at the lock with frozen, un- 
accustomed fingers. Then she unpacked her few 
possessions and laid them away neatly folded in the 
painted chest of drawers. There was no wardrobe 
in the room, but in one corner she saw a row of pegs 
fastened to the wall ; she hung her skirts upon them 
not without misgiving. She wondered when she 
ought to return to the sitting-room. 

Presently she heard her father’s voice calling her 
from the passage without. “Eunice, can I come in?’’ 

She slipped off her seat and going to the door 
opened it. He was standing there, looking very 
tall in the sharp glare of the electric light. He came 
into her room and looked around. 

“You’ve unpacked?” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re not cold?” 

“Not — very, thank you, papa,” she said truth- 
fully. 

“You ought to have had a fire.” He looked at 
the yawning emptiness of the grate. “It isn’t even 


i6o 


EUNICE 


laid. I suppose your mother forgot to tell them. 
You’re used to a fire?” 

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s all right— I don’t 
really want one.” 

She must — she must — feel glad that she was here, 
with her own parents again. He must not guess — 
with his anxious solicitude for her comfort — how 
miserable and forlorn she was feeling. 

“If you’re ready you’d better come down. You 
mustn’t sit up here in the cold.” 

He switched off the light, leaving the room in 
bleak black darkness that somehow shielded and hid 
its ugliness. 

Dinner was served in the solitary sitting-room, and 
the miscellaneous collection of articles had been re- 
moved from the table in order to make way for the 
meal. They now reposed in a slightly increased 
disorder upon the sofa. Eunice found the untidiness 
of the room depressing. She longed to be allowed 
to take away the things and put them neatly in their 
places. 

The warmth of the room and the food brought 
back the color to her cheeks. 

The meal had proceeded for some little time in 
complete silence when Mrs. Dampier said suddenly : 

“You’ll have to take Eunice out to-morrow, Her- 
bert, for I shall be away all day.” 

“All day?” he echoed in astonishment. “Why, I 
thought you said you would be free this week. I 
think you might have managed to spend to-morrow 
— her first day — at home.” 

“Why on earth should I? You insisted upon her 
coming and now you can look after her. I told you 
it would have been far better to let her wait till the 
Christmas holidays, instead of losing so much of the 
term. Take her to the Zoo. I don’t suppose she’s 
ever been there, have you, Eunice?” 


EUNICE 


i6i 


“No, never,” said the child. 

After that there was silence. Eunice felt miser- 
ably uncomfortable ; the sharp, angry voice in which 
her mother had answered her father echoed in her 
ears. She glanced quickly at Major Dampier, a 
look of appeal that he did not notice. His face was 
set in stern lines. It came into her mind then with 
the force of a sudden revelation that he was not 
happy ; he was a fellow-sufferer. 

“Where are you going to-morrow?” he asked 
presently. 

“For a long motor drive with some friends,” she 
answered. “We’re to lunch with some people in 
Sussex.” 

She did not say who her friends were, but he was 
accustomed to that omission. The terrible thing to 
him was that he was ceasing utterly to care. Her 
debts, her degringolade could make him miserable, 
but he had long ago ceased to be jealous. Indeed, 
it had become a relief to find himself sitting down to 
a solitary peaceful meal. 

When dinner was over, Mrs. Dampier said: 

“You’d better go to bed now, Eunice. I hope 
they didn’t let you keep late hours at Brighton? 
You must be tired after your journey. You don’t 
want any help, do you?” 

“No, thank you,” said Eunice submissively. She 
went to her mother’s side and lifted up her face to 
be kissed. Mrs. Dampier kissed her and then, giv- 
ing her a little push, said not unkindly : 

“There, run along. They’ve taught you obe- 
dience, I’m glad to see.” 

Eunice slipped across the room to her father’s 
chair. 

“Gcod-night, papa,” she said. 

He drew her face down to his and kissed her. 

Eunice went upstairs to her room. It came into 


i 62 


EUNICE 


her mind to wonder what Julian was doing. Per- 
haps preparing his work for the next day. It was 
improbable that he could be thinking of her, and 
perhaps he did not even know she had left Brighton. 
It had all been settled so hurriedly. The sudden 
thought of Julian increased her homesickness. 

In the darkness that night she lay and sobbed. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

T he next few days were inevitably momentous 
ones for Eunice, spent by her in a child’s uncon- 
scious adjustment to novel circumstances. It seemed 
to her that they passed in such a manner that they 
would always remain impressed upon her mind, and 
that she would be able to recall them — whether she 
would or not — without any effort of memory. The 
experience would surely be stamped upon her brain 
or her heart or wherever such photographs of mere 
emotion are normally destined to be stored, by some 
indelible process accomplished not only with energy 
but with considerable pain. Indeed, it was at first 
all pain, of a confused and indeterminate kind — this 
agony of finding oneself thrust suddenly into a hos- 
tile, uncongenial atmosphere beset with unusual 
perils, and of knowing oneself to be wholly un- 
wanted, at least by one of the two persons who had 
that authoritative charge over her which is the child’s 
unquestioned lot. That the other person did want 
her with a certain violence of frustrated paternal 
affection scarcely compensated for the remarkable 
defection of Mrs. Dampier in this respect; and it did 
not take Eunice long to discover that her very pres- 
ence constituted an additional element of quite defi- 
nite dissension in the already uncomfortable little 
house. 


EUNICE 


163 

It was indeed one of those detached passages of 
her life that stood out in the history of her child- 
hood, not from any brilliancy of effect, but from the 
dark, meaningless obscurity of its shadows. There 
was no visible egress from this world of petty pain, 
stinging humiliations, ironic recriminations. She 
never, indeed, quite knew when her old, forgotten 
fear of her mother first took forcible hold of her 
again, constraining her to tread delicately, to keep 
out of sight whenever possible, to avoid all that 
could remotely be construed as “naughtiness.” But 
she soon learned that her cold, darkish room offered 
a refuge from only partially apprehended dangers 
that she could not afford to despise ; she was thank- 
ful to be able to escape thither when the tension 
became unbearable. But even this retreat before the 
enemy could not always be safely effected. She 
would hear a sharp : “Eunice, where are you going 
to? Sit down at once and keep still!” Thus ad- 
monished, she would creep back to her chair by the 
window where now she passed so many hours in 
idleness, aware that the mere fact of her presence 
was capable of evoking a sudden hostility. 

As for Brunswick Terrace and all that it held of 
comfort and security and tenderness, that didn’t bear 
thinking of from this new angle of vision. The un- 
success of these days — a failure which Eunice 
morbidly attributed to something unpleasing and 
perhaps repulsive in her own personality — spoiled 
for her even the very possibility of returning to those 
beloved surroundings. Especially did she dread 
the meeting with Mildied Eliot. Mildred was not 
a person who let you alone. She teased you with 
questions, forcing you to answer them adequately. 
To pay for the privilege of her friendship she in- 
sisted upon a measure of intimacy which — when one 
had anything to hide — could become a veritable 


164 


EUNICE 


torture. She would want a detailed history of that 
London sojourn. Eunice could picture the curl of 
Mildred’s lip. “So you weren’t happy? What did 
I tell you?” And that unendurable hint of secret 
superior knowledge. Did all the world know, then, 
that her mother didn’t care for her—that she was, 
in some way inexplicable to herself, an obstacle? 
Had Mildred known that she wouldn’t be happy? 
It wasn’t, perhaps, only idle guesswork. 

There was nothing to tell her that this experience 
was a mere temporary thing; had she been aware of 
that fact it would have given her courage to go 
through with it. But she had the feeling that these 
gloomy, dark winter days were to go on for ever 
and ever. There was very little to do, especially 
on wet days, when her father judged it more prudent 
for her to remain indoors. She had no lessons now ; 
there was no piano on which she could strum when 
left alone, and she had scarcely any books to read. 
It was the enforced idleness, the absence of any 
wholesome occupation or interest, that increased so 
substantially the weariness of the days. Whenever 
it was fine. Major Dampier took her out with him 
as far as it was possible to do so, but there were 
occasions when a man couldn’t appear with a little 
girl in tow. He had people to see at the War Office, 
men to meet at his club, business to be done in the 
City. Once in her hearing she heard him suggest 
to her mother that she should take her with her that 
day, as he was unable to do so. Her answer was 
simply: “I really can’t be bothered with Eunice this 
morning. She must amuse herself.” 

Major Dampier had few friends in London; he 
had been away from England too long, and had got 
out of touch even with his own relations, of whom 
none could be called very near. He had been an 


EUNICE 165 

only child, as solitary in his childhood as Eunice was 
now. 

Mrs. Dampier’s friends were always people who 
amused and entertained her at the moment; she 
seldom formed lasting friendships or cared to look 
up old friends. 

“Eunice, darling, can I bring you anything?” 

She was alone in the sitting-room one hopelessly 
wet morning when a strong northeasterly wind was 
making the atmospheric conditions as disagreeable 
as possible. Mrs. Dampier had gone out much 
earlier, and Major Dampier was on his way to keep 
an appointment at his club. 

“Oh, papa, I should like some books very much,” 
she said. 

“Books? What kind of books, my dear child?” 

“Story-books, please,” she said. “Not fairy-tales, 
though. I’m too old for them. Stories about real 
children — about things that really could have hap- 
pened.” 

He laughed at the quaintness of the description. 

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. I must be off now. 
Good-by, Eunice.” 

She came toward him, her face lifted. He bent 
down and kissed her. 

“I suppose you’re a bit lonely, aren’t you?” he 
said. 

“A little. I haven’t much to do.” 

“Oh, well, the books ought to make that all right,” 
he said trying to speak cheerily. 

When he came in a little before luncheon he tossed 
a big parcel into her lap. 

“There, Eunice! I hope you’ll find something 
you can read among these.” 

She sprang up, all flushed and smiling with excite- 
ment. “Oh, thank you, papa.” 

There was a delicious sense of luxury about even 


i66 


EUNICE 


the untying of the thick string, and the unfolding of 
the solid, opulent-looking brown paper that had 
sheltered her precious new possessions so securely 
from the rain. She lifted out, one after the other, 
some gaily bound books. Major Dampier, finding 
the task too difficult a one to be performed without 
assistance, had taken the bookseller’s man into his 
confidence and asked him to select something suitable 
for a clever little girl of nearly ten. “Not too 
babyish and nothing that could be harmful,” he had 
said. 

Eunice glanced at the titles ; they were all new to 
her. There were no less than six of them, all smell- 
ing deliciously of newness and of the shop. 

Major Dampier was astonished at her little 
shrieks and exclamations of pleasure; she had been 
so silent and quiet ever since she had come to them. 

“You ought to have told me before that you were 
hard up for something to read.” There was a touch 
of loving reproach in his voice. 

“I didn’t like to,” she said. 

Books cost money; sometimes a great deal of 
money. And she understood perfectly the drift of 
her mother’s perpetual and acrimonious complain- 
ing; it was because she wanted money — ^more, seem- 
ingly than she wanted anything else in the world — 
and she couldn’t have it. That under the circum- 
stances there could be anything over to buy books 
for herself had not entered Eunice’s little head. 
Nor had she even wondered that after so many 
years of absence they had not hitherto bestowed a 
single present upon their only child. 

She was still enjoying the mere fact of possession, 
turning over the pages, glancing at the contents, 
looking at the pictures — for Major Dampier had 
insisted that there should be pictures — when Mrs. 


EUNICE 167 

Dampier came in, wet and cross from a weary 
struggle with omnibuses in the rain. 

‘‘What’s all this litter, Eunice?” The brown 
paper had slipped to the floor and she touched it im- 
patiently with the tip of her shoe. “What have you 
got there? Who has been sending you a present?” 

“Papa gave me these books,” said Eunice. 

“All those? He must have spent a fortune I” 
said Mrs. Dampier with anger. 

She disappeared into her bedroom and returned at 
the same moment as her husband. 

“I’m glad to see you’ve still got some money to 
squander on Eunice,” she said. Her eyes were 
dangerously bright and there were pink, patches in 
her cheeks. 

The words struck Eunice like a blow; it seemed 
to her that they had smudged and stained her beauti- 
ful bright books. She formulated the thought for 
the first time : “Papa and I would be happy without 
her.” But she did not dare look at her father, 
who answered slowly: 

“We haven’t given her anything since we came 
home.” 

“She must learn that we simply can’t afford to give 
her presents. What other child of her age has had 
such advantages as she has had all these years at 
Brighton?” 

Eunice gathered up books, paper, and string, and 
moved cautiously toward the door. 

“Where are you going, Eunice? Sit down — 
lunch is ready.” 

Eunice deposited the books on a chair and came 
toward the table. She felt afraid of her mother in 
this mood. 

“Don’t look so sulky! What is the matter with 
you?” said Mrs. Dampier. 


i68 


EUNICE 


“Oh, leave the child alone, Dulcie! She’s not 
doing anything,” said Major Dampier. 

“If you begin to spoil her,” rejoined his wife, 
“you will soon see what will happen. I refuse to 
let her be ruined by indulgence!” 

Something in her tone — a vague menace — chilled 
Eunice. She sat there very quietly, scarcely daring 
to move, praying that she might not be noticed, that 
her silence might not be called sulkiness. Some- 
where in her mind there floated a nebulous wish that 
he had not so ardently and openly taken her part. 
It seemed only to add fuel to the flames. 

“You shall not interfere with her,” said Major 
Dampier with a contraction of his black brows that 
made him look quite fierce; “I forbid it.” 

It occurred to Eunice that he too had been 
alarmed by the little threat in her mother’s words. 
She thought impulsively: “She wants to punish me 
because he gave me those books.” Yes, but how? 
She felt a little shiver of fear run through her; the 
remembered scene in the bedroom at the hotel in 
Rome came back to her mind with a sharp, appalling 
accuracy. 

Mrs. Dampier smiled, a slow, malicious smile. 
So she could still bring him to book, as she called it, 
by a threatened attack upon Eunice; he was more 
soft than ever about the child, indulgent even to the 
point of lavishing gifts upon her. If he could spare 
money for that purpose let him pay some of her 
bills! She had quite a little heap already, and 
almost every day fresh ones were added to them. 
Some of the shops were beginning to display a nasty 
propensity to exert pressure by sending in their 
“account rendered” almost daily. 

“Eunice ought to go out this afternoon,” said 
Major Dampier presently, “it’s quite cleared and 
she wants fresh air.” 


EUNICE 


169 

“I can’t possibly take her — I have some people 
coming to tea with me at my club. If you would 
only let me have a maid I could have sent Eunice out 
with her.” 

“Our expenses are too high as it is,” he said 
coldly. “But I’ll take her out for a bit myself.” 

“I shall not be in to dinner to-night, I am going to 
play bridge,” said Mrs. Dampier. “Please see that 
Eunice does not sit up too late.” 

She rose from the table, went into her bedroom 
and shut the door. Major Dampier turned to his 
daughter. 

“You’d better take those books up to your own 
room, my dear,” he said. “And be ready to come 
out with me, at three, if it isn’t raining. You must 
wrap up well — there’s a cold wind.” 

He sighed deeply and Eunice took her books and 
went up to the chilly little back bedroom, where so 
much of her time was solitarily spent. 


CHAPTER XIX 

I T was about a week before Christmas, and Eunice 
was sitting by the window one morning when she 
saw a cab drive up and stop before the door. The 
morning was fine ; there was a blue sky very pale and 
clear overhead, with a few white clouds traveling 
delicately across it. Both her parents were out, and 
it had been a disappointment to her that Major 
Dampier had been prevented from taking her with 
him. He had business of rather a pressing nature 
in the City, but the poor man had been driven by his 
wife’s extravagance to borrow a sum of money. It 
was the first time, and he told himself bitterly that it 
should be the last. Other men had been obliged to 


EUNICE 


170 


make public their repudiation of any debts contracted 
by their wives, so why should he not adopt the same 
course? That would be the next step. He was 
being dunned for payment of a big bill by a well- 
known firm of drapers in the West End, and for the 
sake of peace he intended to borrow the money to 
pay it. 

Eunice, thinking that her father might have re- 
turned sooner than she had expected, opened the 
window and looked out. The cab was already 
moving away, and she caught a glimpse of two 
figures standing on the pavement — a lady and a boy. 
Could it really be Mrs. Parmeter and Julian? She 
could not see their faces, yet she was almost sure that 
she could recognize them. She shut the window 
abruptly and ran eagerly down the stairs, almost 
falling into Mrs. Parmeter’s arms. 

“Oh, darling Mrs. Parmeter! Julian — Julian — 
you’ve re " Dme?” 



Even 


was astonished at the pathetic 


warmth of the welcome she bestowed upon them. 
It was as if one had placed tempting food suddenly 
before the starved. 

“Come upstairs, won’t you,” she said more shyly. 
“Papa and mamma are both out. I’m quite alone.” 

“Oh, I am sorry to hear they are out,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter, “you see, I wanted to ask them to lend 
you to us for the whole day. We’re going to lunch 
eaily, then go to the theater.” 

Eunice had never been to a play; she had often 
wished to go, because Mildred had talked so much 
about her frequent visits to the theater when staying 
with her aunts in London. But apart from this 
enchanting prospect the offer was an extremely 
tempting one. To spend a whole day with Mrs. 
Parmeter and Julian seemed a thing too delightful 
to belong to the world of stern reality. 


EUNICE 


171 

As they entered the sitting-room Eunice felt glad 
that she had spent a little time that morning after 
her parents had gone out in making it look neat. 
She had done this once or twice lately, and her father 
had noticed it and approved. With a bright fire 
blazing on the hearth she felt that it looked a trifle 
more cheerful than usual. 

“Don’t you think I could come, even though 
they’re not here?’’ she said at last. 

Surely her father would like her to have this 
pleasure. 

“Oh, yes, mother, do let her,” said Julian. 

“Where is Geoffrey?” asked Eunice, while Mrs. 
Parmeter appeared to be still debating the point. 

“He’s gone to the British Museum this morning 
with his father. We shall meet later on at the 
theater,” said Mrs. Parmeter. “Julian and I 
thought it would be a good opportunity to come to 
see you.” 

She had been quick to see the change in Eunice — 
a rather pronounced change for those few short 
weeks of absence. She was pale and thin and looked 
nervous, as if the London life did not suit her too 
well. There was a look in her eyes as of appre- 
hension; perhaps she was afraid of being questioned 
too intimately. But Mrs. Parmeter had no need to 
ask questions; she quickly learned all she wished to 
know from Eunice’s tell-tale little face. 

“Pm sure I may take it upon myself to decide this 
for you.” she said brightly, “and I’ll write a letter 
to Mrs. Dampier to say we came in to steal you dur- 
ing her absence. I can write it, you know, while you 
are putting on your things.” 

Eunice hesitated. The cautious prudence which 
ruled her present conduct was beginning to give way 
a little before the pleasant assurance of Mrs. Par- 
meter. 


172 


EUNICE 


“You’re sure it will be all right?” she stammered. 

Mrs. Parmeter looked very slightly astonished. 
She had never before associated Eunice with many 
scruples. The child when with her had shown a 
free, ardent spirit that sometimes required the slight- 
est touch of a curb, very tenderly applied. 

“I’m sure that I can make it all right, dear. 
They must trust me to take care of you after all these 
years.” 

She realized for the first time how completely 
Eunice had become emancipated from her own care- 
ful custody. 

Eunice was looking at her with an eager, loving 
expression. She felt she could hardly take her eyes 
from Mrs. Parmeter’s beautiful, charming face. 
With her soft dark hair, her laughing brown eyes, 
her gay smile, she seemed to the child ideally beauti- 
ful. She wanted to put her arms around her neck 
and beg her to take her away with her altogether. 
The next moment she was reproaching herself 
sharply for the crass ingratitude of such a thought. 
Her father loved her — would miss her — she ought 
not even to wish to go away from him. 

She went quickly out of the room. When she 
had gone, Julian turned to his mother. His face 
was grave and almost melancholy. He had been 



It had really been principally on his account that 
she had arranged the little expedition, to soften for 
him that first home-coming with Eunice absent from 
their midst. 

“She’s changed,” he said slowly, “she seems al- 
most afraid to come. She used never to be afraid 
of anything.” 

His words served to confirm her own misgiving. 


EUNICE 


173 

She remembered perhaps better than he did the 
details of that Roman episode. But it was unlikely 
that Mrs. Dampier should still treat her little girl 
so harshly, for Eunice was now almost always good 
and obedient and truthful. 

“I think she was -only rather surprised to see us,” 
said Mrs. Parmeter, trying to reassure him. 

She found some writing-materials and scribbled 
a little note to Mrs. Dampier, explaining that their 
visit to town had been suddenly planned and as her 
little boys had so wished to have Eunice with them 
that day she had ventured to call for her and take 
her out with them. When the letter was finished 
she put it on the mantelpiece where it could not 
possibly escape observation. Just as she had done 
this Eunice reappeared. She had put on the hat 
which Mrs. Parmeter had chosen for her and which 
her mother would never let her wear. She did not 
like her new one nearly so well. That teasing little 
scruple still possessed her. Was it wrong? Would 
Mrs. Dampier have let her go for this long day of 
exciting pleasure? But it couldn’t be wrong; how 
could it, when Mrs. Parmeter seemed to think it was 
all right? Mrs. Parmeter must surely know. She 
had always spoken quite frankly to Eunice when she 
disapproved of anything she had done, saying too 
when she kissed her: “Now I know you won’t let 
that happen again.” So surely she could rely upon 
her to decide. . . It was small wonder that this 
sudden prospect of escaping for a whole day from 
her melancholy uncongenial surroundings should 
present itself to Eunice in the light of a lovely but 
dangerous temptation. 

“We’ll walk a little way and then take a cab,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter when they had left the house. 

They walked all down Victoria Street. The fine 
day seemed to have tempted the whole of the 


174 


EUNICE 


London population out of doors, and the scene had 
that happy, festive, busy look which so often 
characterizes it at Christmas time. People were 
hurrying out to perform their belated shopping. 
The gay shops were thronged with eager customers, 
with children just back for the holidays. The 
streets were so crowded with traffic that it was diffi- 
cult to cross the road. The pale golden sunshine 
made one almost forget that it was winter. Eunice 
enjoyed the stir and movement and color of it all. 
She quickly recovered her spirits, put away all tire- 
some scruples, and chatted to Julian as if they had 
never been separated. 

Then came lunch at a crowded restaurant, where 
Julian actually met one of his school-friends and ex- 
changed a few words with him. An orchestra began 
to play, and the soft music continued almost all the 
time they were there. Mrs. Parmeter ordered 
exactly what she knew from experience the children 
would prefer — fried soles, roast chicken, and me- 
ringues, to be followed by dessert and coffee. 

At the entrance to the theater they met Mr. Par- 
meter and Geoffrey, who had arrived there first. 

“So glad you were able to come, Eunice,” said 
Mr. Parmeter. “When are you coming down to 
pay us a visit? I miss you very much.” 

It was a great deal for him to say, but his study 
had never seemed quite the same place since Eunice 
had ceased to visit him there. Even Mildred had 
never persuaded her to forego that precious hour 
of quiet reading. 

Geoffrey too gave her an unusually friendly greet- 
ing. He somehow felt that the Christmas holidays 
wouldn’t be quite complete without Eunice, if only 
that he would have no one now to “rag.” He had 
come to the conclusion that for a girl she wasn’t 


EUNICE 


175 

half bad, and compared favorably with “other fel- 
lows’ sisters.” 

The play was thrilling and full of absurd exciting 
scenes that made them all laugh heartily. When it 
was Over they came out again into the gaily lit streets 
while the soft violet winter darkness had covered 
London as with a beautiful mantle. Overhead, the 
sky was clear and a few stars were visible. There 
was a crisp hint of frost in the air, just enough to 
make them walk a little more quickly and energetic- 
ally. The shop windows, now brilliantly illu- 
minated, looked more fascinating even than they had 
done by daylight. They had tea, and then started 
to walk home with Eunice. Julian wished to walk 
the whole distance, but Mrs. Parmeter thought it 
was too late and that she ought not to keep Eunice 
out any longer; she therefore took a cab in Picca- 
dilly. They got into it, leaving Mr. Parmeter and 
Geoffrey to return to the hotel alone. 

At the door Mrs. Parmeter kissed Eunice and was 
astonished to find that the little face pressed against 
hers was wet. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” whispered Eunice. 

She held out her hand to Julian. “Good-by, 

“You must write to me,” he said, “a long letter 
please.” 

“Yes, if I can,” said Eunice. 

“We won’t come in — it’s too late to disturb your 
mother,” said Mrs. Parmeter, “You must remember 
us to her and say that we have loved having you.” 

“Tell them,” said Julian, “to let you come back 
soon to Brunswick Terrace.” 

Eunice turned a small pale face to him, so set that 
it seemed to have lost its childishness. 

“They wouldn’t let me,” she answered. 


176 


EUNICE 


“Do you mean never?” said Julian. 

“I — I don’t think ever,” said Eunice. 

“Oh, but of course you must come to pay us a 
visit,” said Mrs. Parmeter brightly. Julian’s face 
hurt her. What had this child done to entwine her- 
self thus into all their hearts? 

“I must go,” said Eunice. She rang the bell. 
They waited with her till the door was opened and 
saw her little figure disappear into the hall. 

She stood for a moment uncertainly in the chilly 
passage. The door had closed not only upon the 
street; it had shut out all that was life and joy and 
brightness ; it had hidden from her the kind, loving 
faces before whom no mask was necessary. All 
day she had silenced conscience and scruples, the 
thought of any possible payment for these bright 
hours of happiness. But now the atmosphere of the 
house had taken possession of her. The immense 
sweetness faded a little. She was confronted with 
the thought of immediate proximate retribution. 
She must face her mother, and learn whether or no 
she had offended. 

As she mounted the stairs that precocious intelli- 
gence which fear will so often stimulate in a child 
impressed upon her that she must not look too happy. 
Often when she was consciously controlling her ex- 
pression she had been rebuked for sullenness, for 
levity, as the case might be. 

As she entered the sitting-room she saw Mrs. 
Dampier standing by the table upon which lay Mrs. 
Parmeter’s letter. Evidently she had just come in, 
had found it, had read it. Eunice’s heart sank a 
little when she saw that her mother was alone. By 
the hard look about her eyes and mouth and the 
flush on her face, she knew that she was angry. She 
felt suddenly weak, helpless, undefended. If only 
her father were there! . . . 


EUNICE 


177 


Mrs. Dampier saw Eunice’s fear; it was too 
plainly written on her face to escape such astute 
observation. When she spoke, her object was de- 
liberately to terrorize her. 

‘‘How dared you go out with Mrs. Parmeter 
without my leave?” she demanded. 

“She came to fetch me,” said Eunice. 

“And where did you go?” 

“First to lunch — there was music — and then to 
the theater. Then we had tea, and Mrs. Parmeter 
and Julian brought me home.” 

She stood there, a forlorn, frightened figure, 
piteously aware of her own defenselessness. She 
was thinking to herself, with that dreadful precocity 
of hers : “She’s been waiting for this — waiting till I 
did something she could call wrong.” She had out- 
witted her mother all these weeks by that patient 
wary prudence of hers. 

“She had no business to take you out without ask- 
ing my permission. It was a piece of impertinence. 
She forgets you are not under her care any more. 
You have been living in the lap of luxury all these 
years while we have been struggling and saving to 
pay for your education in England.” How far this 
was from the truth, Eunice had of course not the 
smallest conception. Had it cost them a great deal, 
that beautiful happy life of hers with the Parmeters? 
Was it the cause of their present poverty of which 
her mother complained so often and with such bitter- 
ness ? She was immersed in these speculations when 
Mrs. Dampier’s harsh, angry voice brought her back 
sharply to the present moment, so heavy with im- 
pending disaster. 

“But you should have known better, you had no 
right whatever to go. You know perfectly well that 


EUNICE 


178 

if I had been at home I shouldn’t have allowed it. 
You have got to learn to forget the Parmeters. 
They have utterly spoiled you all these years. I 
wish I had never sent you there. Now go up to bed 
at once, Eunice. I shall come up in a few minutes.” 

Eunice turned very white. 

“I didn’t know you wouldn’t like it, or that it was 
wrong to go. I’m sure papa would have let me. 
But I’m sorry.” 

“You will be much more sorry before I have done 
with you,” said Mrs. Dampier in a cold threatening 
voice. 

Eunice went up to her room, her limbs trembling 
and her teeth chattering with cold and fear. A de- 
grading sense of terror seemed to possess her utterly, 
robbing her of all strength and courage. If only 
her father would come home in time to save her 
from the dreadful possibility of physical violence 
suggested by her mother’s words. She undressed 
herself, put on her nightgown, and slipped in be- 
tween the cold sheets, where she lay trembling and 
shivering. She waited a long time. . . . Perhaps 
her mother had only said that to frighten her, to 
convince her that she had been wicked and deserved 
punishment. The suspense made her sick with 
apprehension. 

At last she heard her mother’s step on the stairs. 
Mrs. Dampier opened the door, came into the room, 
shut it again and advanced toward the bed where 
Eunice lay, bright-eyed with fear. In her hand she 
held a riding-whip ; she passed the lash up and down 
between her fingers as if testing it. . . . 

Eunice never knew exactly how she affected her 
escape. The air was rent with a shrill cry — surely 
she had never uttered it — a cry of mingled terror 
and despair. She slipped from the bed, wrenching 


EUNICE 


179 


herself free from Mrs. Dampier’s violent clutch. 
As she fought her way to the door and opened it 
the whip fell twice upon her shoulders with a force 
that seemed to cut her in two. But she was outside 
her room — she was flying down the stairs in a frenzy 
of sheer terror, like one in a nightmare who feels 
herself pursued by invisible horrors. No unknown 
danger of the crowded London streets could com- 
pare with the imminent one from which she was 
fleeing. . . She had torn across the hall and flung 
open the front door when two powerful arms caught 
her up into an immense unimaginable security. She 
gave a sob of relief that nearly shook her to pieces, 
and clung wildly to her father, her thin little arms 
clasped about his neck. She was beyond speaking 
and almost insensible to pain. 

He could well imagine what had reduced his child 
to these straits. From day to day Mrs. Dampier 
had been waiting for an opportunity to strike a blow 
at him through Eunice. How far she had succeeded 
he could not tell, but the child had somehow 
managed to escape; he had found her fleeing into 
the night. . . 

“My dear, dear Eunice,” he whispered comfort- 
ingly. 

He carried her upstairs. On the threshold of her 
room he saw his wife. It struck him that she looked 
like an implacable Nemesis. There was something 
terrible in her white, determined, cruel face. His 
heart sank within him. 

He pushed past her and carried the child into her 
room. 

“Will you go away, please?” he said sternly. “I 
will look after Eunice.” 

The door closed upon Mrs. Dampier. She 
realized that she had been defeated. 


i8o EUNICE 

CHAPTER XX 

M ajor dampier was engaged in forming precise 
plans for the future. Although he had never 
been very sanguine about his visit to England after 
so many years of absence, knowing that he would 
inevitably feel something of the sensations of a Rip 
van Winkle astray in his own country, he had cer- 
tainly never anticipated that it would end so abruptly 
in failure so irremediable. 

Financial ruin stared him in the face. For years 
he had economized to keep his head above water 
while his wife spent and squandered. Now he had 
been forced to borrow money at a very high rate of 
interest, and he knew that a man placed in such cir- 
cumstances has but little chance of extricating him- 
self through his own exertions. His account at the 
bank was overdrawn ; there was no help to be looked 
for from that quarter. And he had no near relation 
or intimate friend to whom he could apply for money 
in an hour of pressing difficulty. It is true that he 
had one rich cousin, whom he now never saw, though 
as a boy he had visited at his house in the north. 
But Charles Dampier had disapproved of his im- 
provident marriage, as he called it, and had signified 
his disapproval by taking no further notice of him. 

But the money worries, degrading as they were to 
a man of the most fastidious and scrupulous honor, 
sank almost into insignificance beside the fresh blow 
he had endured to-night, this sudden sinister expres- 
sion of his wife’s hostility toward himself, evinced 
by the cruelty of her contemplated attack upon 
Eunice. The child had done nothing wrong, as she 
sobbingly explained in that hour he spent in her room 
trying to comfort and soothe her. And in any case 
Mrs. Parmeter’s note of apologetic explanation 
should have sufficed to exonerate her from any blame 


EUNICE 


i8i 

in the matter. But it was an occasion, alas, when her 
conduct, which had been so amazingly, astonishingly 
perfect, could at last be criticized, and all these weeks 
such an occasion had been wanting. Eunice, as if 
aware of pitfalls had gone carefully. That she was 
not the same simple and happy child bubbling over 
with unconscious gaiety whom he had seen in Brigh- 
ton, he had always been disturbingly aware. But he 
had admired even while he regretted her quick grasp 
of the situation, her apprehension of dangerous pos- 
sibilities. And as the days went on he lulled himself 
into a kind of security about her, feeling that she was 
able — this child of ten — to take care of herself. 
Now his house of cards had fallen about his ears. 

At dinner they scarcely exchanged a word. Mrs. 
Dampier was a little alarmed; she had had her 
moments of being afraid of Herbert. And she 
knew that he was not only furious with what she had 
done, but that he intended to take steps to prevent 
anything of the kind happening again. In some way 
or other he would exact retribution from her. They 
were so far apart now that nothing could really in- 
crease the distance that divided them unless it could 
be their respective attitudes toward Eunice. Her 
growing hostility toward himself, her utter disregard 
of his wishes, her dishonorable debts, had very 
slowly but perfectly killed his love for her. But he 
did not yet hate her, and to-night he shrank from the 
thought that perhaps one day she would also accom- 
plish this crowning misfortune. 

As the end of the dinner drew near she told him 
carelessly that she was going out that night. 

“No, you are not going out, Dulcie,” he said with 
sudden sternness. “I have several important things 
to say to you.“ 

Mrs. Dampier looked at him with heightened 
color. She was looking pretty to-night; her fair 


i 82 


EUNICE 


hair was massed on the top of her head and her large 
grey eyes were shining like jewels under the steady^ 
level brows. She was very like the girl whom eleven 
years ago he had loved with a strange passion of 
worship. But even that fact was powerless to 
soften his heart toward her now. He could not rid 
himself of the remembrance of that tragic moment 
when he had caught the escaping Eunice in his arms. 
He had seen too the marks of two long red weals 
upon her shoulders and had realized with what 
violence those blows must have been delivered. 

“I don’t wish to hear anything you’ve got to say. 
I know you are going to abuse me, and I know it all 
off by heart. You had far better let me keep my 
engagement with the Kinghams.” 

But although her tone was sharp she did not really 
mean to go out this evening in defiance of his wishes. 
It would be safer to conciliate him. 

“I have made up my mind to go back to India as 
soon as possible, perhaps in the course of next week,” 
he continued slowly, his eyes fixed upon her face. 
“It is impossible for me to stay in England any more. 
I am already ruined and every day adds to our in- 
debtedness. You have spent all I had and much 
more. I have had to borrow money to stop your 
dressmaker from dunning me. Well, there is 
nothing left, Dulcie, and you have had your fling; 
but it can’t go on any more. And now you have 
deliberately gone against me about Eunice. I will 
say nothing of your cruelty. But you have made it 
so hard for me ever to forgive you.” 

“You are exaggerating, as usual,” she said. “I 
considered that Eunice deserved to be punished. I 
only gave her two tiny cuts — that is nothing to make 
a fuss about!” 

“I forbade you to touch her,” he said, “I won’t 
have her treated cruelly.” 


EUNICE 


183 


“Do you expect me to let her run quite wild and 
have her own way always?” demanded Mrs. Dam- 
pier angrily. 

“She has been perfectly good ever since she came 
to us. I defy anyone to find fault with her 
conduct.” 

“She had no right whatever to go out with Mrs. 
Parmeter without my leave. I didn’t wish her to 
see them. She is always hankering after them — 
comparing them, I am sure, to us; and that is what 
makes her so sulky and miserable here. She must 
learn that we are her parents, that she has got to 
obey us, and that we have our rights!” Her eyes 
narrowed cruelly. “She must learn, in short, to 
forget the Parmeters.” 

“I don’t intend that she shall forget them,” said 
Major Dampier, “I mean to send her back to them 
— if they will have her.” 

“That will be an insult to me. They will think 
you don’t trust me to look after her!” she said 
angrily. “You can’t take a child away from its 
mother — when there’s no need!” 

“And is there no need?” he said bitterly. 

“I tell you, you are making a fuss about nothing. 
And I won’t have her go back there ! I’m Eunice’s 
mother.” 

“I don’t consider that you are the proper guardian 
for a nervous little child,” he said icily. “Even if 
we were to stay in England I could never leave her 
with you with any sense of security. But as we are 
going back to India immediately, the question does 
not arise. Eunice shall go back to Brighton before 
you drive her mad with terror.” 

“You are talking nonsense. I tell you I hardly 
touched her.” 

“But you were going to, and I had forbidden it. 
What would have become of her if I hadn’t found 


EUNICE 


184 

her this evening?” He rose wearily. “That is 
enough, Dulcie. Don’t let us go over the ground 
again. You must be ready to start next week, and 
in the meantime I can’t give you another cent for 
cabs and outings.” 

“I won’t come with you. I refuse to come!” she 
said passionately. 

“You have made it absolutely necessary. We 
can not afford to stay at home any longer.” 

“If you can afford to leave Eunice in luxury in 
England you can afford to leave me here too. I am 
the person to look after her, not Mrs. Parmeter. 
I refuse to give her up 1” 

“You shall never have charge of Eunice again 
while I am alive to prevent it.” 

Mrs. Dampier began to cry. 

“Why don’t you get an appointment at home 
instead of going back to that hateful India? You 
have no ambition. You are content to go on in the 
same old groove, to drag me down.” 

“No,” he said icily, “it is not I who am dragging 
you down, Dulcie. You are my wife and we must 
try to make the best of things. I own it is not very 
easy, and if it is my fault I am sorry. But I am 
quite determined to send Eunice back to the Par- 
meters — unless, of course, they refuse to have her.” 

“If I had any money of my own I should refuse 
to go back with you. I should leave you and never 
see you again. I wish with all my heart that I had 
never married you I” 

She went into her bedroom and shut the door. 
He could hear sounds of stormy weeping. Her 
words had torn down the last frail barrier of reserve 
between them. Only hard necessity kept her by his 
side. But he saw more clearly than ever how essen- 
tial it was that Eunice should be separated from her 
mother. He must keep them apart till the girl was 


EUNICE 


185 


grown up, so that she should risk no contamination 
from the daily intimacy with such a mind. He 
seemed to see in Eunice the possibilities of a beauti- 
ful character, and he was resolved that she should be 
given a fair chance. 

Mrs. Dampier saw that she had played her cards 
badly. She had precipitated the very thing that was 
most hateful to her, their return to India. It was a 
satisfaction to feel, however, that her husband must 
also be very unhappy. Whatever else she had done, 
she had forced him into a premature parting from 
Eunice ; and Eunice was, as she saw very plainly, the 
light of his eyes. Although she had told him that 
the child was “always hankering after’’ the Par- 
meters and perhaps comparing her own parents un- 
favorably with them, she knew she had not been 
strictly truthful. Eunice would have been perfectly 
happy alone with her father. They had quickly 
become friends, in a short time they would have 
bridged over those years of separation and become 
as intimate a father and daughter as if they had 
never been separated at all. 

There was no chance of his relenting. When he 
spoke like that, in a stern, passionless voice, she 
knew by experience that his mind was made up, and 
that neither tears nor entreaties would make him 
alter his purpose. He was going to take Eunice 
away from her ; he had told her she was not a proper 
guardian for her own child. What explanation 
could he possibly offer to Mrs. Parmeter when he 
made his request that she should once more receive 
Eunice? Could he offer any, indeed, that would not 
be damaging to herself? And it was quite possible 
that Mrs. Parmeter, remembering certain events 
that had happened in Rome, would be able to guess 
what had driven him to this sudden decision. 

She was to be sacrificed for Eunice. It was for 


i86 


EUNICE 


Eunice’s sake that she was to be compelled to return 
to India. When she thought of the charm and 
luxury of Mrs. Parmeter’s abode the reflection be- 
came doubly bitter. Eunice would have all those 
things that she was denied. 

“I hope they will refuse to have her back,” she 
thought to herself. “It would do her all the good 
in the world to rough it a little. She has been 
utterly spoiled.” 


CHAPTER XXI 

M rs. parmeter asked no questions, but she left 
no doubt in the half-broken heart of Major 
Dampier as to the nature of the reception that 
awaited Eunice on her return. She might indeed 
have been welcoming a daughter of her own who 
had been absent from home on some innocently 
prodigal course, and who was now miraculously re- 
stored to her. And because of her reticence — a fine, 
delicate quality of hers, born of her dreadful fear 
of wounding by any chance remark the unknowable 
and perhaps stricken soul of another — Major Dam- 
pier found himself pouring confidences into her ears. 
She ought not to be kept in the dark as to the chain 
of circumstances that were remorselessly prevailing 
upon him to part with his child and go back to his 
work. 

“I can’t have all that you’ve so wonderfully done 
for her, undone,” he explained. “I can’t have that 
bright spirit of hers crushed and broken. She be- 
longs so much to you.” 

Even the Italian Madonnas fashioned of pale 
gleaming majolica, the holy-water stoups, the pic- 
tures, and all the other evidences of their faith which 


EUNICE 


187 


had so intrigued him upon the occasion of his first 
visit to Brunswick Terrace, touched him to-day to a 
new perception and appreciation of that spiritual 
atmosphere which imbued the whole house. He 
knew that he wanted Eunice to have those very in- 
fluences. He had no idea what part they had 
hitherto played in the shaping of her, but he was 
aware that he wished to have nothing altered. 

He felt she was a child whom any woman could 
have loved and cherished; she seemed to him desti- 
tute of dull and disagreeable qualities. That made 
it all the more strange that she should awaken within 
her own mother no other feeling but an active and 
cruel hostility. 

Even now, loyalty held him back from telling 
Mrs. Parmeter the whole truth. But his broken, 
ashamed utterances gave her a glimpse of that life 
to which Eunice had been exposed during the weeks 
she had spent with her parents. 

“She was always afraid, and it made her abnor- 
mally apprehensive,” he said, “she was never quite 
natural. She was slipping back to what she used to 
be in India as a small child. Clever at eluding 
notice, though God knows she did nothing wrong, 
never said a word any one could have caviled at in 
her anxious desire to please, or rather not to dis- 
please. She’d no small sins to hide, as in the old 
days. But the fear had never really died in her 
heart.” 

“But she didn’t do anything?” Mrs. Parmeter 
betrayed her only curiosity. He hadn’t told her 
what had precipitated the crisis which must have 
supervened before he could have brought himself to 
put an end to the situation in this abrupt final 
manner. 

“Oh, if you want to know, it was your fault!” he 
said with a touch of bitterness, as if ashamed to 


i88 


EUNICE 


reveal that such immense results had emerged from 
an initial cause that was so slight. “The day you 
fetched her — it was the first time that her conduct 
could have been called in question at all.” 

“You mean she oughtn’t to have come?” Mrs. 
Parmeter was horrified to think that she herself, 
however innocently, had been instrumental in bring- 
ing about the crisis. “You must forgive me — it was 
tactless. But we thought even if we had no longer 
any rights we might at least claim the privilege of 
borrowing her I” 

“Oh, you could have done it in ninety-nine cases,” 
he told her now, “but this happened to be the miser- 
able hundredth. Perhaps I ought to be grateful to 
you for hastening the climax. There are other 
things that make it impossible for me to stay. And 
about the payments, Mrs. Parmeter” — dark color 
flooded his face, for here his own honor was sharply 
concerned — “I’m ashamed it should be so in arrears. 
And at present there’s no prospect of my getting 
square — we’re simply head-over-ears in debt. I can 
only promise you — if you’ll still trust me — that I 
shall pay off every farthing as soon as I can.” 

“Oh, don’t talk about that!” Her voice was al- 
most pleading. “If you knew what it means to us 
all to have her back, you’d never mention payment 
again. And you can see perhaps that we’re not — 
thank God — in need of money. Eunice makes no 
difference except to increase our wonderful happi- 
ness. We’d almost rather, you know, that there 
shouldn’t be any question of payment at all. You 
see — ^you are giving us so much.” 

She was thinking of Julian. 

He tried to thank her. “What you can give her 
could never be paid for,” he said earnestly. “One 
doesn’t buy and sell happiness and tranquillity — 
and that loving care you’ve given her for two years.” 


EUNICE 189 

“My boys will be delighted to have her back — 
especially Julian.” 

“Ah, she’s very fond of Julian,” he said, “I 
should like to see him. She’ll want to hear about 
him when I get home.” 

“But of course. I’ll send for him at once. Geof- 
frey is playing hockey to-day.” 

Julian came in, eager to see Eunice’s father, yet 
shy too at the thought of meeting him. He wasn’t 
the princely figure of his dreams, this immense, 
white-haired soldier with the dark, tragic, unhappy 
eyes and the thin bronzed face. Still, he was a 
personality; you felt that almost as soon as he spoke 
to you, in that direct way of a man whose dealings 
with other men are necessarily simple and straight- 
forward, and for the most part impersonal and 
official. There was more perhaps of the Centurion 
than of the Black Prince about this man to whom 
Eunice belonged. 

Major Dampier, on his part mentally categorized 
the boy as interesting-looking. A trifle delicate, he 
was so very white, but he had extraordinary intelli- 
gent eyes, deep-set, solemn. He remembered that 
this was the one whom Lady Eliot had characterized 
as a regular little devot. 

“So you are Julian,” he said holding out his hand. 

“Is Eunice quite well, please?” said Julian. 

“Yes, she’s pretty well, thanks. I’ve come down 
to ask your mother if she’ll let her come back I” 

The boy looked up and smiled, and his whole face 
was suddenly transformed. He had the feeling that 
he had been awakened from a prolonged and painful 
dream. He had told himself so often that she 
would never come back; he had ceased by any effort 
of imagination to picture her return. 

“Do you mean for always?” he asked. 

“Not always, perhaps, but for a good long time,” 


190 


EUNICE 


said Major Dampier, kindly; “ you see, I’m going 
back to India with my wife next week.” 

“She’s to come next week?” said Julian, hardly 
daring to believe it. ^ 

“This very next week,” said Major Dampier, for- 

J etting his own sorrow in that look of pure joy that 
ulian’s eyes seemed to radiate at that moment. 

“I know you’re glad, Julian,” said his mother 
gently. 

“Glad!” And he smiled again — that rare smile 
of his that drove away like a sudden glance of sun- 
shine the deep, brooding solemnity that ordinarily 
made his face seem so little boyish. “It’s too good 
of you — when you’ll miss her so,” he added, trying 
to put himself in the position of Major Dampier and 
to picture what this premature parting must mean to 
him to whom Eunice belonged. He had forced him- 
self in his most savagely miserable moments to re- 
member that these people had, after all, a prior 
claim, had every right to take her away, to keep her. 

“Yes, I shall miss her terribly. But I’ve got to 
go back and daren’t take her with me. At least, 
if she’s here I shall know that she’s happy.” 

Julian longed to ask him how long he would re- 
main in India this time, but he felt that the question 
might be indiscreet, and convey indirectly that they, 
the Parmeters, could only hope his absence might be 
indefinitely extended. Besides, it didn’t matter so 
very much. They could feel quite safe for at least 
a year, perhaps two years. And during that time 
Eunice would belong utterly to them. It had been 
terrible without her all these weeks. He had not 
complained; in his childish way he had tried to bear 
the trial supernaturally, always aware that this was 
the only possible way of bearing it at all. 

Mrs. Parmeter had been right when she told 
Major Dampier that Eunice made no difference ex- 


EUNICE 


191 

cept to increase their wonderful happiness. He 
found himself vaguely wishing that his home more 
closely resembled this one. Not in wealth and 
luxury, but in that calm, ordered contentment which 
dominated it so suavely. The perfect sympathy, 
too, that existed between mother and son gave him 
something like a sharp pang, and the thought of 
Eunice then produced a forlorn feeling that he had 
missed something that was essential to happiness. 
He couldn’t keep his only child with him because her 
mother had conceived this fierce dislike to her. 
That was the plain fact stated plainly. It was too 
hideous to be capable of palliation, and it had almost 
broken his heart. . . 

He was prepared to make any sacrifice where 
Eunice was concerned, to compensate her for this 
evil of which she was only half-conscious, but under 
the shadow of which she had been groping pitifully 
during her sojourn in London. 

“You don’t want to consult your husband first?” 
he said, suddenly aware that this crucial matter had 
been apparently settled without any regard at all to 
the head of the house. “He may object to having 
her back.” 

Mrs. Parmeter smiled. “I’m afraid I forgot all 
about asking Norman,” she said, “but we will speak 
to him about it at lunch. I know, you see, it’s what 
he’s been wishing for — ever since she went away. 
He’s perfectly devoted to Eunice.” 

His brow cleared again. “I can never thank you 
enough,” he said, “and if I could only assure you that 
it isn’t a weak shifting of responsibility on my part ! 
I feel that her whole future is at stake. And know- 
ing what you’ve done for her I couldn’t face the 
thought of placing her elsewhere.” 

“But surely,” cried Mrs. Parmeter, almost in dis- 


192 


EUNICE 


may at such a suggestion, “you would have given us 
the first refusal of her, wouldn’t you?’’ 

“If you put it like that ” he said slowly. 

“How could I put it in any other way?’’ she 
breathlessly parried. There had been a chance, 
then, of their losing the child. This man, aghast at 
the misfortune that had come upon him, must have 
believed too that they didn’t want her at Brighton 
either. He had felt actual reluctance at asking this 
favor of them, when all the time they considered 
themselves as the recipients of enormous privileges. 

It was a comfort to him to feel that Eunice had 
the capacity for making herself loved. There was 
no doubt at all of their joy at the news of her return. 
Nor was he to be spared Norman Parmeter’s care- 
ful, unenthusiastic, but obviously sincere : 

“It’s most awfully good of you, Dampier, to trust 
her to us again. I only hope we shall none of us 
fail in our suretyship.” 

He had a dry, ironical way of speaking, but his 
face lit up with pleasure as he uttered the words. 

“Tell her I’ve a wonderful assortment of new 
books. I’d intended to send them up to her later 
on if she didn’t come down herself to fetch them.”^ 

Later on he had a word with Major Dampier 
alone. 

“There’s only one thing I want to ask you,” he 
said, “and that is that you’ll let Eunice come back 
as a visitor — a dear little guest, in fact. I don’t feel 
as if we could have a business arrangement any 
more. If you could allow this, it would so enor- 
mously increase our pleasure in having her.” 

“I couldn’t do that,” said Major Dampier hastily, 
“I’m already too deeply indebted to you. It’s not 
to be thought of.” 

“Won’t you really see,” said Norman, “how 
dreadfully we’re indebted to you? I lost a little 


EUNICE 


193 


girl once,” — he had not mentioned Baby Sister for 
many years — “it was a great grief to my wife, so I 
don’t often talk about it. But I have always wished 
for a little daughter. That is why I’m so grateful 
to you for letting us have the care of yours.” 

It seemed to Major Dampier that there was 
nothing more to be said, and he was obliged to give 
in. 


I* 

CHAPTER XXII 

W HEN she first came back they all felt as if they 
could not do enough to show how welcome 
she was. They knew how nearly they had lost her, 
and this made her bright little presence of an in- 
calculable worth. She had so nearly escaped from 
them — ^by as sure though not quite so final a means 
as in the long ago Baby Sister had effected her escape 
from a world that had shown her nothing but the 
tenderest love and solicitude. 

The agonized parting with Major Dampier was 
over when she came, and Mrs. Parmeter went to 
Victoria Station to receive her from his hands. 

Eunice understood the situation perfectly, as far 
as her father could allow her to understand it. He 
had to go back to India, and he had felt — to put it 
mildly — that she wasn’t quite happy in London, 
hadn’t quite everything, so to speak, that the Par- 
meters had so abundantly given her. Eunice knew 
that he wasn’t only speaking of material things ; they 
didn’t in the long run count, and could never indeed 
have counted against the blessing of his own love for 
her. But then he was a busy man; he hadn’t time 
always to look after her, to see that she was happy; 
he never, of course, added the words, “and safe.” 


194 


EUNICE 


Nor did he suggest she must have seen that some 
sort of supervision was necessary to avoid scenes of 
the kind that had been enacted completely in Rome, 
and imperfectly — for which she had her own coolness 
to thank — in London. He wasn’t acting through 
mere caprice, as he could quite loyally explain to her, 
in giving up his long-looked-for leave, his holidays 
and returning to work before they were ended. She 
must never, never think that doing these things sig- 
nified any lack of affection for her; she was always 
his first thought. And that was the reason why he 
was going to take the Parmeters at their word and 
send her back to Brunswick Terrace. She must be 
very good and patient, and work hard at her lessons, 
and try to be a dear little daughter to them. . . He 
had choked back a rising emotion at this point, feel- 
ing, indeed, as if he were with his own hands digging 
a grave for something inexpressibly dear to himself. 
For how could he remain away for years and years 
and then come home expecting to find her unchanged 
toward him? He must inevitably miss all those 
little daily intimacies which weave such strong bonds 
between the members of one family. He had to 
renounce the thought of watching her grow up, de- 
veloping from childhood to girlhood, to the first 
sweetness of womanhood; he fancied in Eunice’s 
case the gradual evolution would be as exquisite as 
the unfolding of a flower. She would grow up to 
great beauty, there was no doubt of that, and her 
intellect so assiduously cultivated in that wonderful 
home would be on a par with her beauty. 

Even to Julian she gave scarcely any account of 
the two months she had spent with her parents; her 
mother’s name was shrouded in an almost complete 
silence. Nor could Mildred wrest any details of 
that sojourn from her sealed lips. She could and 
did talk of her father when she had recovered a little 


EUNICE 


195 


from the pang of parting with him. She went back 
to school, worked with considerable energy, leaving 
the slower-witted Mildred far behind, and seldom 
failed to visit Mr. Parmeter in his den when the 
day’s work was over. She made efforts to show 
them that nothing was changed, herself least of all, 
by that enforced absence. 

When Julian came home for the Easter holidays 
she surprised him by asking him to speak to her 
sometimes of his religion. “You know I like to 
hear about it because it’s yours,” she said. 

“They don’t mind?” he said hesitatingly. 

“Papa never said anything about it,” she answered. 

It was a mere childish endeavor on her part to 
draw nearer to them in this as in all the other details 
of their life. There was something definite and 
permanent now about her sojourn with them, and 
she was contented as a child is when it has been 
taught by sharp experience to dread change. She 
was more gentle and considerate toward Julian, less 
provocative to Geoffrey, and to Mr. and Mrs. Par- 
meter she was almost everything that a dear little 
daughter of their own could have been. She had 
her place in the house, in their lives ; in all their plans 
she played a part. Julian could see letters arrive 
from India without his old sick fear that they might 
bring news of her departure from their midst. It 
was all settled and comfortable and there was little 
dread of losing her. 

Although she still went to church on Sundays with 
the Eliots, since Major Dampier had not mentioned 
that he wished any change in this arrangement, 
Julian taught her a good deal during the holidays. 
“I wish papa was a Catholic and then I could be one 
too,” she said much later. 

Julian answered thoughtfully: 

“When you are grown up you can choose. Your 


196 EUNICE 

father can’t mind so very much or he wouldn’t have 
let you come back.” 

Those years in Brighton passed very quickly ; those 
calm, uneventful, changeless years, only marked by 
the growing-up of the children; the little alterations 
that took place in their habits, amusements, and 
tastes, foreshadowing so clearly the kind of men and 
women they would be. Neither their own sons nor 
Eunice ever gave them any cause for real anxiety. 
They made progress in knowledge and in self-dis- 
cipline, and Julian especially in the deeper things of 
the spirit. 

Only one summer stood out for Julian as an un- 
happy time. . . 

The Dampiers had been gone more than three 
years, and Eunice was in her fourteenth year. She 
promised to be tall like her father, and she was the 
same height as Geoffrey, who was more than a year 
older. Julian was still the thin, overgrown one of 
the group, a little awkward in some of his move- 
ments and gestures but with the poet’s eyes and brow, 
which had an exaggerated resemblance to his 
father’s. Geoffrey, passionately fond of cricket, was 
often away from home in the summer; he frequently 
went to play in cricket-matches at country houses 
where he was a great favorite and could always be 
depended on to acquit himself well. He had so 
much energy and initiative. In some ways he had a 
more interesting experience of life than his brother, 
and he pitied Julian, who really did not need his pity 
and would have eagerly rejected any offers of the 
kind for himself. He hated staying with people. 
He always alleged, he was much happier here with 
his books ; he wouldn’t miss a day of it. . . 

“Or of Eunice,” Geoffrey once ventured to say 
with a taunt in his voice. He had never quite got 


EUNICE 


197 

rid of his old jealousy that Julian should be so pre- 
occupied with Eunice. 

They were walking one hot July day on the Hove 
Lawns. The vivid green and blue of the scene was 
always painted on Julian’s memory. It was so hot 
that even the sea scarcely offered any coolness; no 
breeze stirred across that plain of sparkling sap- 
phire-colored water. He was walking with his 
parents, and they had promised to meet Eunice on 
the Lawns, as she had gone to church with the Eliots, 
and take her home. They had walked some little 
way before they saw the Eliot party coming toward 
them. Lady Eliot had Sara and Jane one on each 
side of her — Susan was still considered too young to 
go without a nurse — and close behind them was Mil- 
dred walking with Eunice and a tall, broadly-made 
boy with light-brown eyes and hair. To Julian he 
seemed almost grown up. He had rather a charm- 
ing face with a wide, laughing mouth, and dark 
brows that made a striking contrast to his paler hair 
and eyes, and gave a certain character to his 
physiognomy. Almost immediately Julian felt that 
he would never forget exactly how this boy looked 
as he strolled along so carelessly by Eunice’s side, 
lifting his stick now and then to indicate something, 
and showing in all his movements an easy grace that 
was very attractive. He looked wonderfully alive. 

“This is my husband’s nephew, Gilfrid Eliot,” 
said Lady Eliot, introducing him. “I’m sorry to 
hear that Geoffrey isn’t at home — I’m sure they 
would have got on well and they could have played 
golf together.” 

Lady Eliot was very fond of this orphaned young 
nephew of Sir Alaric’s. He was still at Eton, but 
in a year or two he was to go to Oxford, and at the 
age of twenty-one he would inherit a large fortune 
and a charming property. 


198 


EUNICE 


“I want Eunice to come to lunch to-morrow and 
we mean to go up to the Dyke afterward,” she said. 

Eunice was looking flushed and excited and very 
pretty. 

“Oh, do please let me, Mrs. Parmeter,” she said. 

“Of course you may go, Eunice dear,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter, regretting perhaps that Julian had not 
been included in the invitation. He would spend a 
long lonely day and though he never seemed to mind 
she could not help feeling that it was bad for him. 
Besides, he would miss Eunice. 

They all went on together for a little way, but 
Gilfrid and Mildred still kept a little behind with 
Eunice. 

“Is that Julian Parmeter Mildred’s been gassing 
about?” said Gilfrid, in his careless way. “Looks 
a bit of a freak. But then these chaps from Catholic 
schools so often do.” 

He passed on immediately to quite another topic, 
dismissing him with these few words of careless 
criticism that somehow made Eunice a trifle 
ashamed of Julian, of his strangeness so often felt 
but imperfectly apprehended and certainly never 
before expressed in these concrete terms. She 
wished that Gilfrid could have seen Geoffrey; there 
was nothing of the freak about him. He was ex- 
actly like other boys of his age, only more clever and 
brilliant and good-looking than most of them. Lady 
Eliot had often frankly confessed that she preferred 
Geoffrey of the two, he was more human and less 
spoiled. 

Julian walked on silently, thinking of this big 
laughing boy with his handsome, careless face. 
Geoffrey, when he returned on the following day, 
would be admitted into the little group; he felt 
almost certain that there would be a sudden close 
friendship between the two. Geoffrey made friends 


EUNICE 


199 

very quickly; he nearly always got on well with other 
boys. 

“Where’s Eunice?” Geoffrey asked at luncheon 
on the following day, seeing that there was no fifth 
place laid at table. He had just arrived at home 
from a successful week of cricket. 

“She’s lunching with the Eliots,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter. 

“Eunice’s swagger friends,” said Geoffrey laugh- 
ing. 

“Their nephew Gilfrid Eliot is staying there. 
He’s older than you — about seventeen, I should 
think,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“Ju and I won’t have a look in,” said Geoffrey. 

Somehow the careless words stabbed Julian. 
Never before in his life had he felt jealous, but now 
he was conscious of a, rising, consuming jealousy of 
the big handsome boy he had seen on the Lawns the 
day before. 

“We’re not quite up to her form now,” said 
Geoffrey. 

He made up his mind to “rag” Eunice when she 
came back. Sometimes he made her cry, but Mr. 
Parmeter always interfered if he thought his son 
was going too far. When his eyes flashed and had 
sparks in them, as Julian used to say as a little boy, 
his sons still realized it was time to stop. 

They were sitting in the schoolroom when Eunice 
at last returned in the dusk of the summer evening. 
She had enjoyed her day. They had had tea on the 
downs, and Gilfrid had told her in a moment of con- 
fidence that she was very pretty and had “ripping 
hair.” She came back a little elated at this un- 
accustomed and very definite praise, her cheeks 
flushed still from the wind on the downs and her 


200 EUNICE 

eyes shining. There was indeed every excuse for 
Gilfrid’s admiration. 

Geoffrey and Julian sat there reading. Geoffrey 
was working; he always set apart an hour or two 
every day for this purpose. Julian was reading a 
book of poetry; but his thoughts were full of Eunice, 
and he was wondering when she would return when 
the door opened and she came suddenly into the 
room. He put down his book and smiled at her. 
She came across to the window and sat down near 
him. 

Geoffrey waited a moment before inaugurating his 
attack. 

“Well, Miss Dampier, I hope we shall be allowed 
to have the honor of dining with you to-night, if 
your friends can spare you.” 

Eunice looked up a little startled. 

“Why — why shouldn’t I dine with you?” she said. 

“Because we’re not smart people,” said Geoffrey 
in an aggravating tone. “We can’t compare with 
your new friends. Our manners have not that re- 
pose — at Eton, isn’t he?” And he fixed large, 
innocent blue eyes upon Eunice. 

Eunice flushed and the tears came into her eyes. 

“Why are you so horrid just because I went out 
to lunch?” she said. 

“Don’t mind what he says,” said Julian, anxious 
to make peace. “Don’t let yourself be drawn.” 

“I like my friends,” Eunice flashed out suddenly. 
“They’re polite at least. They’re not always rag- 
ging me — and each other!” 

She was angry now. Geoffrey could still arouse 
her old quick temper. 

“No — I was quite sure that we couldn’t be com- 
pared with them,” said Geoffrey smoothly. 

Eunice picked up a book that was lying near and 
flung it at him with well-directed aim. It caught 


EUNICE 


201 


him square just above the ear. He sprang up and 
coming across the room grasped her hands. His 
wrists were as thin and supple as steel springs. 

“You little vixen !” he cried. “Apologize I” 

“I shan’t! Let me go — you are hurting me. . . 
Julian, tell him to let me go 1” 

She wriggled and struggled, but Geoffrey’s grasp 
was like a vise. 

“I’ll let you go, my dear Miss Dampier, when 
you say you’re sorry. Do you behave like a fiend 
at the Eliots’?” 

He was smiling, but she knew by his blazing eyes 
that he was angry and meant to hold her thus im- 
prisoned until she apologized. The blow had hurt 
him, and his face on that side had grown crimson 
through the healthy sunburn. 

“Julian, do help me. Tell him to let me go.” 

“Say you’re sorry, Eunice, and he’ll let you go all 
right. Don’t hurt her Geoff — it was your fault, you 
know. You were teasing her.” 

Eunice did not follow this excellent but difficult 
advice. She struggled and stamped and finally 
screamed with rage. Geoffrey continued to hold 
her with his powerful young hands. In the midst 
of this pandemonium, when Julian was still wonder- 
ing whether he ought to interfere or not, Norman 
Parmeter came into the room. Geoffrey with his 
back turned to the door never noticed his father’s 
entrance. The first he knew of it was a blow that 
sent him staggering across the room. 

Eunice, finding herself suddenly freed, made her 
escape, sobbing and crying with rage and relief. 

Parmeter faced his son with flashing eyes. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Geoffrey? I won’t 
have you treat Eunice like that. You’re not to be 
rough with her!” 

“She threw a book at my head first,” said Geof- 


202 


EUNICE 


frey sullenly. “I told her Fd let her go as soon as 
she apologized. She’s got the temper of a fiend.” 

“Well, let me catch you at it again !” said Norman 
with a threat in his voice. “Mind, Geoff, I mean 
what I say. You’re older than she is and you ought 
to have learned self-control by this time. Do not 
please make it necessary for me to teach it to you.” 
His voice subsided into its more usual tone of tem- 
pered irony. Then quietly he went out of the room. 

Geoffrey sat down by the window. There was a 
lump in his throat and his hand shook a little. 

“I hate Eunice,” he said, “I wish she’d go away. 
She always got us into rows.” 

“She never got me into a row in her life,” said 
Julian. 

“That’s because you suck up to her and let her do 
everything she likes. Father’s never hit me like that 
before.” 

“You shouldn’t have hurt her, then,” said Julian. 

The little scene had made him nervous. He had 
hated to see Geoffrey struck with such force ; for the 
moment he had feared that he would actually fall to 
the ground. Yet he felt that if no one else had 
intervened he would soon have had to go to the 
rescue of Eunice himself. It was a very difficult 
position — this one of arbitrating between Eunice and 
his own brother. Both had been in the wrong, but 
Geoffrey had begun it, teasing her in that light sar- 
castic tone that always wounded her. She had come 
in looking so radiantly happy, almost triumphant, 
and now she had fled upstairs, sobbing and crying. 

“She’ll begin to think she’s happier at the Eliots’,” 
he thought to himself. 

“Of course you take her part — you always did,” 
said Geoffrey, aggrieved. “She’ll be awfully cocky 
now at getting me scored off like that.” 

Presently Julian rose and went upstairs. He had 


EUNICE 


203 


no intention of seeking Eunice immediately, but he 
longed to know what she was doing and if the tem- 
pest had subsided. On the next floor there was the 
little room that once had been the nurse’s but which 
had now been transformed into a sitting-room for 
Eunice, where she had her piano and books. As he 
passed by, the door was ajar and he became aware 
of a distressing sound of sobs. He tapped lightly 
at the door, and receiving no answer entered 
cautiously. 

The room was almost in darkness for already the 
violet summer twilight was deepening into dusk. In 
an armchair near the window he perceived a huddled 
figure from which the sobbing emanated. Stepping 
lightly, Julian went across the room and took 
Eunice’s hand. 

“Don’t cry, Eunice dear,’’ he said in a comforting 
tone. 

The sobs subsided a little and she raised her head. 

“Why was Geoff such a beast to me? And I was 
so happy — we had a lovely day. Now it’s all 
spoiled and I never want to think about it again.’’ 

“You shouldn’t take any notice of him when you 
see he wants to rag you. He’d stop soon enough 
then.” 

“He makes me mad. I want to — to hurt him I” 

“Well, you did hurt him, you know,” said Julian 
smiling. 

She rose, stood in front of a little mirror and 
arranged her disordered hair. 

“Don’t be angry too, Julian,” she said. 

“I angry? I’m never angry with you. You 
ought to know that by now.” 

“But you take Geoffrey’s part.” 

“I don’t. I only try not to let him see that I take 
yours.” 

“You do take mine — always?” 


204 


EUNICE 


Julian reflected a moment. “Yes — always.” 

“Really and truly? Even when I behave like a — 
a fiend?” 

“You see I never think you’re a fiend,” he said 
with a comforting smile. 

“I’m horrid to you, though, sometimes. I let 
Gilfrid Eliot call you a freak yesterday, and I never 
said a word.” 

Julian smiled, a pale, remote smile. 

“Perhaps I am a freak — to him.” 

“But I ought to have shown him that I was angry. 
Here — ” she tapped her breast lightly, “I felt very 
angry.” 

Whatever happened to Eunice she could never 
bear to feel that Julian thought ill of her. On her 
narrow little plane of life, with its infinite hopes and 
fears and dreams — such as commonly people the 
interior life of imaginative childhood — this was the 
one unendurable disaster. To beleive that in his 
secret heart he was thinking she had behaved badly 
on any occasion was to her like a succession of 
stripes, not bruising the body with marks that would 
soon fade, but bruising the soul with indelible scars. 

She flung her arms round his neck now with one 
of her swift spasmodic outbursts of affection that 
always took him a little aback and which could, with 
advancing years, make him feel definitely awkward 
and embarrassed, and sobbing wildly, kissed him. 
It was her way of expressing relief and contrition. 

“You’re not — you’re not a freak,” she assured 
him. “I love you better than any one. I was a 
coward not to stick up for you, when you were 
spoken of like that I I want to be polite and agree 
and hide what I really think. Why can’t I be brave 
— like you?” 

“But I’m not brave,” he said very quietly. 


EUNICE 


205 

‘‘Oh you are — you are! You wouldn’t let any 
one call me names and never say a word.” 

“No, I don’t quite see myself doing that. Only it 
wouldn’t take any particular courage.” 

He pushed back her disheveled dark hair from 
her forehead. Her face was still wet with tears, 
and his hand, as he took it away, was wet too. He 
made her sit down in the big armchair, and then he 
sat on the arm of it and drew her head toward him 
until it rested upon his shoulder, just as he had done 
when they were both little children. She became 
very quiet almost at once. His odd tenderness 
soothed her and gradually took the sting out of her 
pain. She was ashamed of her outburst of temper. 

They remained thus while the darkness flowed in 
upon them through the open windows, as if it were 
something cold and deep that came to them out of 
the heart of the restless sea beyond. 

“Yom don’t mind my being friends with the Eliots, 
so why should Geoffrey mind? Why should he be 
horrid about it? He’s never been my great friend 
here. He’s always teasing me. I like him less than 
any of you,” she said at last. 

“Oh, you mustn’t mind him. He loves ragging 
people. At school he is always getting his head 
punched for it,” said Julian. 

“Still, you are — as you said just now — on my 
side?” 

“Yes, but Geoff’s my brother and I’m bound to 
think of him.” 

She recognized this delicate loyalty; it touched 
her. It seemed to her that Julian, young though he 
was, was always so right. 

“If you’d behaved as I did this evening should 
you have to say it in confession?” she inquired pres- 
ently. 

Julian paused. “Yes,” he said. 


2o6 


EUNICE 


“What would you say?” There was always 
something mysterious to her about this rite so 
punctually, observed — as she knew — by the Parmeter 
family. Especially she was curious with regard to 
Julian. On the surface he seemed to her so fault- 
less; she had often wondered what he found to say. 

“I should say that I lost my temper — ^gave way 
to anger — caused another person to commit a sin of 
anger,” he said very slowly, his eyes fixed upon the 
darkness beyond. He could hardly see her face 
now, he could only, when he turned his head, dis- 
tinguish a pale oval in the gloom. 

“And then?” 

“I should receive absolution — the priest would 
give me some prayers to say for a penance. But I 
should have to do much more, you know, than the 
mere telling of the sin — that’s only a little part of it, 
though it’s the part that hurts most, as a rule. You 
have to feel real sorrow and contrition for what 
you’ve done, Eunice, and make a firm resolution 
never to commit that sin again — and ask for grace 
to help you to keep it.” 

“I could never be good like you,” she murmured. 

“I’m not at all good. But it helps one to be bet- 
ter. And it’s a lovely feeling — having absolution.” 

“Is it?” She was always interested in personal 
feelings and experiences. She liked him to lift the 
curtain sometimes and reveal glimpses of that quiet, 
withdrawn life of his. “What does it feel like, 
Julian?” 

“As if you had been cleansed and healed,” he said 
slowly. “Don’t talk about these things to other 
people — people who don’t understand them. Not, 
for instance, to Mildred.” 

“I don’t ever talk to Mildred about you. I love 
to hear you talk. Go on, please. You seem to 
think it matters so frightfully whether we are good 


EUNICE 


207 


or not. I only care because Fm so ashamed after- 
ward that people should have seen me when Fm 
naughty. I hate them to know. I couldn’t bear it 
if you began not to like me any more because of 
things like to-night. But you don’t seem to care 
what other people say and think. It’s not for that 
reason that you’re always trying to be good.” 

“Oh, Fm not thinking of people,” said Julian, 
“that would only be pride — human respect.” 

“Then why — why?” she said, longing to get in 
some way closer to him, his thoughts, his ideals. 
That spiritual atmosphere of his — a thing quite be- 
yond her definition in concrete terms — was some- 
thing that differed very widely from the excellent 
but worldly standards that prevailed at the Eliots’. 
It baffled her always, because his silences, so seldom 
broken, as they had so wonderfully been to-night, 
kept her always on the other side of the barrier. 

“Because we are here to serve God,” said Julian. 
“All sin — all imperfection — all lack of co-operation 
on our part with the divine will — must keep us 
further away from God. And if we love Him we 
wish because of our love to draw near to Him. 
There are people who never have that desire, and 
they even disbelieve that it exists in others. Christ 
has shown us the way — has left us His Church,” he 
proceeded in a voice that now warmed a little, “and 
His sacraments as a means to draw closer every day, 
every hour.” He seemed to be speaking less to her 
than to himself. Looking in front of him, almost 
unconscious of her nearness, of her rapt attention, 
he seemed to see before him painted mystically 
against the summer sky that ladder 'which Francis 
Thompson saw: 

“Pitched between heaven and Charing Cross.” 

Eunice said no more. It was the first time that 


208 


EUNICE 


he had ever offered her a definite and complete 
glimpse of his interior life. Child as she was, she 
felt that it held the clue to all that had puzzled and 
even baffled her in Julian. That Something in him 
which set him apart from other people and which 
influenced those around him. Perhaps some vague 
sense of this difference in him had prompted Gilfrid 
Eliot to call him a freak. 

She slipped away at last, leaving him there 
scarcely aware that she had gone; his face cameo- 
pale in the gloom, his burning eyes fixed upon a point 
in the darkened horizon. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

E unice went down to dinner in a subdued mood. 

Julian’s influence was very strong; it made her 
go up shyly to Geoffrey who was already in the 
drawing-room, and say; 

“Please, I’m sorry, Geoff. Do forgive me.” 
“Oh, that’s all right, Eunice,” said Geoffrey, 
whose fits of anger were always short-lived. “Sorry 
I hurt you,” he added, with a touch of awkwardness. 

Mrs. Parmeter, who had heard something of 
what had passed from Norman, was relieved to find 
that the children were once more on good terms. 
Eunice had been crying; there were traces of tears 
on her face and her eyes were slightly red, but she 
talked quite cheerfully and directed nearly all her 
conversation to Geoffrey as if to make amends. The 
meal passed in perfect harmony; the slight troubling 
of the waters had subsided. 

“I don’t believe there’d ever be any disturbance 
at all if I wasn’t here,” thought Eunice, penitently. 

It was a comfort to be able to feel that they were 


EUNICE 


209 

all so ready, even eager, to forgive her any lapse 
of the kind. 

Geoffrey, as Julian had anticipated, very soon 
made friends with Gilfrid Eliot. When this had 
been accomplished, neither Eunice nor Mildred saw 
much of Gilfrid. He was at an age when he still 
preferred the society of other boys, and he and Geof- 
frey had many athletic tastes in common. They 
played cricket and golf, and often on those warm, 
mellow days of mid-August they would go out deep- 
sea fishing, returning quite late and burned almost 
black by the sun. Julian never offered to accom- 
pany them. He was singularly destitute of all 
sporting and athletic instincts, and only played games 
when school discipline compelled him to do so. For 
the rest of the holidays he was thrown more upon 
the society of Eunice, except when she was invited 
to spend the day with Mildred. Gilfrid was some- 
times present on those occasions and always when 
Eunice returned she seemed to Julian a little altered 
and excited as if she were conscious of having had a 
successful day. But she never talked much about 
Gilfrid. It was the obvious admiration of this boy 
so much older than herself that she found so thrill- 
ing; always when she came back she thought that 
Julian was a little dull and quiet. And then his 
very restfulness would make her happy and con- 
tented with him again. 

When she reflected — as she did sometimes in the 
morning, just after the housemaid had put a tray 
with a cup of tea by her side and drawn up the blind 
with a clatter that was intended to banish sleep like 
an enemy — upon that conversation with Julian she 
came to the conclusion it was because he had these 
grave mature thoughts about God and his duty, that 
he seemed so unlike other boys. He had lost, so to 
speak, his very youth; he had made sacrifice of it, 


210 


EUNICE 


she supposed. He never did anything wrong that 
she could discover, and Eunice was still at an age 
when forbidden fruit is commonly sweet. She found 
a delicious pleasure in secretly disobeying rules at 
school and even leading Mildred into unhallowed 
paths. There were only a few years in which, as 
she was wont to tell herself, you could do such things. 
They would be impossible and ridiculous in a grown- 
up person. It was a pity to miss anything that 
strictly belonged to one’s youth. Julian had deliber- 
ately turned his back on a whole set of minor ex- 
periences simply because in his eyes they were wrong. 
He was never disobedient or cross, never got into 
any kind of mischief, although Geoffrey offered him 
abundant possibilities of so doing and was ever ready 
to lead the way. She could not believe that Julian 
was ever deliberately or consciously untruthful. He 
never grew angry nor abused other people nor attrib- 
uted blame to them. And even now that he had 
explained to her something of his aims she failed to 
grasp the importance of the fundamental principle 
that guided him. How could he care so passionately 
about God? Why was he so impetuously eager to 
serve Him — to draw nearer to Him in some mys- 
terious, invisible communion? He loved Him — but 
why? These were puzzling questions, yet only the 
answers to them could have thrown any light upon 
his character and life that set him arbitrarily apart 
from them all in a detachment that prevented herself 
as well as others from approaching too closely to 
him. And it was not only the result of teaching. 
Geoffrey had had precisely the same education, and 
he was not good in the sense that Julian was good. 
People, such as Lady Eliot, often preferred him to 
Julian on account of his brighter disposition, his gay 
and sunny humor; but he had all the faults that most 
healthy boys have. When he quarreled with her 


EUNICE 


2II 


they both almost always lost their tempers, and there 
was an angry wild scene such as Mr. Parmeter’s 
sudden entrance had put a stop to. She was sorry 
that Geoffrey should be hurt, and so, she knew, was 
Julian, although he bore no malice toward her for 
her share in the affair. For a few days she even 
^ resolved to be more like Julian, and to have more 
serious thoughts of holy things, but soon she found 
herself straying back to the old, pleasant, easy paths 
where Mildred led her and Gilfrid flattered her, and 
there was often a contemptuous little sneer for 
Julian. 

“I don’t ask Julian,” Lady Eliot used to say when 
she invited Geoffrey; ‘‘I know he doesn’t care to 
come.” 

The August days flowed into September, and the 
holidays drew near to their close. There was an 
unusually fine summer in England that year, and 
always when Julian looked upon it he visualized it as 
a broad space of brilliant light interspersed with 
dark shadows. Those shadows, when everything 
became confused and blurred to his mind, were the 
days in which Eunice was swept out of his sight, 
swept away, as it seemed, by the malicious light touch 
of Lady Eliot. It wasn’t so much that he missed 
her; he could tranquilly amuse himself in her 
absence, but it was the thought of that growing in- 
fluence they had over her. They idly destroyed or 
tried to destroy all his own impartments to her, 
especially those that touched upon religion. She 
was far less ready to listen to him after a day or two 
spent in that jovial little company with its acknowl- 
edged leader, Gilfrid Eliot, who stigmatized it as 
“Rather rot, all that sort of thing, don’t you think?” 
when the Parmeters’ religion was being discussed 
among them. And, in his utter enjoyment of life, 
his unfailing gaiety, his boyish charm, there was no 


212 


EUNICE 


doubt that Gilfrid was far more fascinating and con- 
vincing than Julian Parmeter. He did manage 
somehow to impose this apparently happier point of 
view upon Eunice, who found her own disposition 
far more in accordance with it. After all, the things 
for which Julian was striving so strenuously were 
slightly unnecessary and exaggerated when viewed 
through Gilfrid’s more worldly eyes. “One can have 
an awfully good time and do one’s duty without all 
that,” he used to say. “Makes a man a bit of a 
smug, don’t you think?” And, although his words 
hurt Eunice at the time, they unconsciously influenced 
her. Not so much as regarded Julian; she was 
accustomed to his unlikeness to other boys, but 
toward the religion he professed. It was something 
that engulfed you, took possession of you, made 
heavy demands upon your life and conduct. She 
had always instinctively shrunk from it as something 
that might possibly chain and imprison her, although 
it attracted her in so many ways. Gilfrid was right, 
she considered; he was older, more a man of the 
world than Julian. . . She was strongly on the 
Eliots’ side that summer, and she was with them a 
great deal. 

Major Dampier continued to write regularly to 
his little daughter, and he frequently sent a letter 
also to Mrs. Parmeter. He never said much about 
himself, nor was there ever a word relating to his 
own domestic affairs. All that Mrs. Parmeter could 
learn of them was through Lady Eliot in their some- 
what rare interviews. Any intimacy between the 
two houses was through Eunice and Mildred, and, 
when Gilfrid was there, through him and Geoffrey. 
The two ladies had not a great deal in common. 
Lady Eliot would shrug her shoulders during these 
interviews and say; “I’m afraid from what my hus- 


EUNICE 


213 


band tells me, Mrs. Parmeter, that things are going 
from bad to worse. There’s a great deal of gossip, 
and of course, poor man, he hasn’t an atom of con- 
trol over her. I sometimes think it would be almost 
the best thing that could happen if she were definitely 
to leave him !” 

She knew as she spoke that Mrs. Parmeter, al- 
though silent, disagreed with her, and would even 
condemn this view as utterly wrong and sinful. But 
surely there must be exceptions? The woman was 
fast ruining him financially, as she had long ago 
ruined his prospects of military advancement. And 
even he had seen the utter impossibility of leaving 
Eunice to her guardianship. 

In the Christmas holidays, things went much bet- 
ter for Julian. The Eliots had let their house for a 
few months and were away in London. He was 
dreadfully afraid that Eunice might have an invita- 
tion to stay with them, but Lady Eliot told her that 
as Gilfrid would be with them there would be no 
room for her, and she mustn’t mind being separated 
from Mildred until Easter. Eunice accompanied 
the Purmeters to Midnight Mass at Christmas, and 
remained a subdued, interested spectator, carefully 
following it all in a book Julian had given her. She 
was old enough now to feel a sharp sense of separa- 
tion from him when he left the bench to go up to the 
altar-rail. She waited for his return, but there were 
a great many people, and when he came back, long 
after Mr. and Mrs. Parmeter and Geoffrey had 
rejoined her, there was a strange expression on his 
white face that told her he was utterly unaware of 
her presence. He remained by her side kneeling, 
his face buried in his hands, and so still that she 
could fancy him asleep. Even on the way home he 
scarcely spoke. The night was a beautiful one; the 
sky quite clear and pricked with golden companies of 


214 


EUNICE 


stars, and as they passed along the quiet Front they 
could see the sea lying there like a shadow and hear 
the breaking of the waves on the shingly beach. The 
air was still and crisp with a touch of frost. 

“I am glad you came,” was his good-night greet- 
ing to her. But his eyes seemed to be looking past 
her. “Were you able to follow all right?” 

“Yes, thank you, Julian,” she said. She was a 
little afraid of him in this mood, almost as if she 
feared to say something that would jar upon him. 
The mingled joy and awe in his face seemed to her 
to possess a mysterious supernatural quality. There 
was nothing in that joy of ordinary pleasure. 

It was perhaps the only incident of that winter 
that stood out very clearly in Eunice’s remem- 
brance. She used to say to herself afterwards: 
“I went to Midnight Mass my last winter at the 
ParmetersI” That more than anything fixed the 
date in her mind. . . 


The storm broke in July toward the end of the 
summer term. All kinds of things had been prom- 
ised for the coming holidays, and Eunice was looking 
forward to them with a keen enjoyment. The 
Eliots had taken a house by the sea in Devonshire 
where the bathing was good, and they had invited 
Eunice to spend a month with them. Gilfrid was to 
be there too; he had just left Eton and was to go to 
Oxford in the autumn. Mrs. Parmeter had not 
been very willing to let Eunice go, but she had faith- 
fully written to consult Major Dampier and he had 
acquiesced without any apparent hesitation. He 
thought it would be good for Eunice to have the 
change of air and sea-bathing. And he knew that 
Lady Eliot, with all her experience of children, 
would take the greatest care of her. She must have 


EUNICE 


215 


whatever frocks she needed. He enclosed one of 
his rare cheques to meet the extra expense, and Mrs. 
Parmeter put it by with all the others he had sent as 
a little nestegg for Eunice in the difficult years to 
come. 

When Mrs. Parmeter looked back upon the first 
breaking of the storm, a period so violent, so 
dramatic, so completely out of harmony with all the 
fabric of her own life, she felt as if she had witnessed 
a sudden whirlwind that had, it is true, passed by her 
own person, leaving it unhurt, but which had wrecked 
its savage rage upon the life she had for so long 
tried to shelter from all harm. To this life it had 
been apparently the agent of irremediable damage, 
while to others its effect had been little less than 
catastrophic. Eunice, for example, was perhaps 
destined to be almost the principal sufferer, for what 
daughter does not suffer from her mother’s shame? 
Major Dampier — another hapless victim — and 
Mrs. Dampier, who had ridden carelessly on the 
wings of that storm, what had it done to her in its 
access of savage violence? The first news came in 
a stiff little letter from Eunice’s father : 

“Dear Mrs. Parmeter: 

“It is now my most painful duty to write to tell 
you that my wife has left me. I am starting for 
England almost at once to take divorce proceedings 
against her. She has already gone home, and I am 
advised that pending the case she may probably 
make some attempt to possess herself of Eunice. I 
therefore entreat you to use every means in your 
power to frustrate any effort of the kind, both for 
the child’s sake and for mine. I do not wish Eunice 
to be told anything unless it becomes absolutely neces- 
sary. If she goes away with Lady Eliot, kindly ask 
her not to mention it to her. You have, I know, 


2i6 


EUNICE 


been always exceedingly kind to her and I feel sure 
that you will continue this kindness until my return. 

“Yours very truly, 

“Herbert Dampier.” 

It came like a bombshell at breakfast one morn- 
ing. Eunice was sitting in her usual place placidly 
eating. She was alone with Mrs. Parmeter, who 
was always present to see that the child ate a proper 
meal before going to school. Norman breakfasted 
in his study; he never faced the world while the day 
was young. 

“Is that from mamma?’* asked Eunice, glancing 
at the envelope with its Indian stamp. She had long 
ago ceased to be curious about her mother’s doings 
and she did not often speak of her father. All that 
time in London was so very far away, wrapped in 
the mists of four long years, that the very misery of it 
had become confused and blurred. The little pres- 
ent world of every-day things and duties occupied 
the chief place in her mind, as it does indeed with 
most normal children, even the highly imaginative 
ones. 

Mrs. Parmeter only said: “No, dear, it’s from 
your father this time,” and the meal proceeded in 
silence. 

Presently Eunice said: 

“Funny he hasn’t written to me. That’s the 
second mail that he’s missed.” 

Mrs. Parmeter laid the letter down with a little 
sigh, stifled as soon as it was born. She glanced 
pityingly at Eunice, who sat there eating with such 
cheerful unconsciousness. She seemed to discern 
what it would mean to that young life, beautiful and 
so full of bright promise, to be tarnished and 
dimmed in its first radiance by the sin of another. 
She felt as if she were looking at Eunice with quite 


EUNICE 


217 


new eyes, as if the child had become suddenly ambig- 
uous and enigmatic, a new creature. The daughter 
of a woman who had wrecked her husband’s honor 
and the sanctity of her home, and who was going to 
be divorced. The child of eternally divided parents. 
To Mrs. Parmeter, as a Catholic, the ease with 
which Protestants dissolved their marriages was 
almost as extraordinary as it was blameworthy. 
They made a new start. People would look askance 
at them for a while and soon forget a scandal of the 
sort in the rush and hurry of modern life. 

Eunice was looking unusually pretty to-day. She 
was tall and slim now, and her small features and 
large, dark eyes possessed great charm. At fourteen 
years old she had acquired a certain repose of 
manner, and had left the impetuous wildness of her 
childhood far behind. Her hair was thick and 
wavy, but it was no longer so rebelliously curly as it 
had been in her nursery days, when it defied all 
efforts of brush and comb to keep it moderately tidy. 
In all that she did now, whether of work or play, 
she was extraordinarily alive, putting her whole heart 
and energy into it. She was quick and in some ways 
brilliant. Major Dampier, when he returned after 
his four long years of exile, could not but be pleased 
with his daughter. She promised to be good and 
beautiful as well as clever. 

“It’s time for me to go, Mrs. Parmeter,” she said 
glancing at the clock. She rose from her seat, flung 
her arms affectionately round Mrs. Parmeter’s neck 
and kissed her, just as if she had been her own child. 
She was very devoted to them both. 

“Good-by darling,” said Mrs. Parmeter. “I hope 
you’ll do well in the exams to-day.” 

“You’re not vexed? I haven’t done anything?” 
said Eunice, a little puzzled at her manner. It was 


21 8 EUNICE 

unlike Mrs. Parmeter to be so silent all through the 
morning meal. 

“Oh, no, Eunice dear, Tm not in the least vexed. 
You never vex me I” She kissed her again. “Now 
you must run along or you’ll be late.” 

Mrs. Parmeter dreaded the inevitable awakening. 
It must be deferred according to the expressed wish 
of Major Dampier, but whenever it came it was 
bound to be a bitter thing for Eunice, full of dis- 
illusionment. 

Mrs. Parmeter had led a suave and sheltered life, 
very eventless judged exteriorly, yet full of a deep 
and satisfying happiness. She had married very 
young the first man she had ever been in love with, 
and she still loved him with a love that seemed to 
deepen as the years went by. They were perfectly 
happy in their children, and perhaps in order that 
they might not feel the loss of their own little 
daughter too deeply they had been sent the care of 
this child, who had grown so dear to both of them. 
Mrs. Parmeter could not imagine a passion that 
could be strong enough to induce a woman to leave 
her home and desert her children. Such an action 
was almost inconceivable to her ; it would have been 
as impossible to her as to commit a murder or to 
steal, or to fall into any of the grosser sins She tried 
to picture herself in the melancholy position of having 
forfeited the right to tend her own children, and she 
thought that this alone would have had the power to 
keep her from any sin that could detach her perma- 
nently from them. To give up Julian. . . The tears 
came into her eyes at the very thought. Nothing 
could have made up to her for the loss of Julian. 
And then she realized her own happiness, how great 
it had been and how it had almost overwhelmed her 
with sweetness. Her heart seemed as if it must 
brim over with thanksgiving. She had had so much, 


EUNICE 


219 


poured forth in such abundant measure, no niggardly 
draught such as was accorded to so many people, 
but a happiness renewed daily, and blessed through 
more than sixteen years. 


CHAPTER XXIV 



FEW days later Lady Eliot paid a sudden visit 


to Mrs. Parmeter, early one afternoon while 
Eunice was away at school. 

The day was warm, and Lady Eliot wore a deli- 
cate dress of pale grey muslin and a large straw hat 
of the same silvery hue. She looked very handsome 
and hardly a day older than when Mrs. Parmeter 
had first seen her. 

“Dear Mrs. Parmeter,” she said, “I am so dis- 
tressed! I have had a letter from Alaric telling 
me the most extraordinary piece of news. But of 
course as you have that unfortunate child under your 
care you must already have heard it.” 

“Do you mean about her mother?” said Mrs. 
Parmeter, feeling vaguely anxious. There had been 
to her quick ears something of reproach in Lady 
Eliot’s tones, almost as if she wished to suggest that 
Mrs. Parmeter should have told her sooner. 

“Of course I do. Very shocking, is it not? But 
you know I have always said that Mrs. Dampier was 
quite the most likely little person in the world to run 
away from her husband. They never got on, and 
she has been behaving scandalously all this past year, 
Alaric says. I am very sorry indeed for Herbert 
Dampier, but he ought never to have married her. 
A little nobody from no one knows where, no con- 
nections of any sort or kind — and she has always 
led him a dance. So unfortunate for a really clever 


220 


EUNICE 


and ambitious man to have a wife of that type. I 
have been told that Mr. Charles Dampier never for- 
gave him for marrying her. But I have not come 
here to discuss that part of the business. I only want 
to know what you propose to do about Eunice.” 

“I can do nothing until her father arrives, and he 
will not be here much before the end of August,” 
said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“You mean you are going to keep her here?” 
cried Lady Eliot, in unconcealed astonishment. 

“Certainly.” Mrs. Parmeter was faintly sur- 
prised and offended. 

“And have them fighting over her eventually, here 
in your house?” 

“Fighting over her — here?” 

Lady Eliot was always inclined to be astonished 
at what she called Mrs. Parmeter’s innocence. 

“Why, what else do you expect them to do?” she 
was able to say at last. 

“I don’t think Mrs. Dampier is in the least likely 
to come here. Why should she?” 

“She is certain to come. I’m told she’s mad with 
Herbert for divorcing her, and she means to fight 
the case and get hold of Eunice !” 

Mrs. Parmeter was silent from sheer astonish- 
ment. Yet had not Major Dampier warned her 
that Eunice must be guarded from any attempt on 
her mother’s part to gain possession of her? When 
Lady Eliot spoke to her in this way, thrusting this 
new aspect or the case with such violence before her, 
a strange new anxiety invaded her heart. 

“But she’s in England, and she hasn’t attempted 
to come — ” she said. 

“She will, now that she knows Herbert has taken 
proceedings. I am convinced Sir Chandos Mirton 
will never marry her.” 

Mrs. Parmeter felt a little sick, as if she had just 


EUNICE 


221 


heard very bad news. She saw that, far from being 
an unimportant little pawn in the game, Eunice was 
destined to play a leading part. She had an instinc- 
tive longing to protect her, to shield her, to keep all 
tarnishing knowledge and experiences from her. 
She saw her exposed to hurt, and through her Julian 
would suffer. 

“Major Dampier doesn’t wish Eunice to know 
anything about it at present — not indeed until it’s 
absolutely necessary,” she said. “I hope if Mildred 
has heard anything she will not mention it to her.” 

“Mildred will not have any opportunity,” said 
Lady Eliot, with a little laugh that somehow sounded 
unkind. “I packed her off to my mother this morn- 
ing. She’ll miss the examinations and one week of 
school, but that won’t hurt her. You know she is 
not brilliant, poor Mildred I However, there won’t 
be any need for her to earn her living by her brains, 
thank goodness. It is odd how really clever Jane 
and Sara and Susan all are. One more brilliant than 
the other. The doctor urges me not to force them. 
I believe Jane knows nearly as much as Mildred 
already I” 

But in spite of the digression contained in the last 
part of the speech, Mrs. Parmeter felt anew that 
sensation of dismay which had assailed her already 
several times during the course of their conversation. 
What possible connection could there be between 
Mildred’s hurried departure from home and the 
domestic disaster of the Dampiers? Lady Eliot 
was soon to enlighten her. 

“I thought it wiser from every point of view. 
One must never let girls feel themselves injured. 
It’ll be perfectly easy to tell her later on that Eunice 
can’t join us.” She spoke almost carelessly, as if 
she were convinced that Mrs. Parmeter must have 
foreseen the necessity for this banishment of Mil- 


222 


EUNICE 


dred, and yet there was a note of decision in her 
voice that showed the iron will behind that charming 
exterior. “I hope it will not be necessary to make 
many explanations to Mildred. I can count upon 
her to behave reasonably.” 

Mrs. Parmeter felt more than ever that her little 
world — her happy and tranquil world — had been 
flung into a violent and tragic confusion. 

“So there’s no question now of Eunice going with 
you to Devonshire this summer?” she managed to 
get out at last. It was met with a brisk, instant re- 
joinder that struck her as sharp and hard, and so 
clearly outlined that it stood out almost as a relief 
from the prevalent confusion. 

“Oh, I thought you’d see that without my telling 
you. Putting aside the prospect of having the 
belligerent parties descending upon me, a woman 
with a big daughter can’t be too careful. I’m so 
thankful I had planned this change for the summer.” 

“Poor little Eunice,” murmured Mrs. Parmeter. 

“Of course, it’s poor little Eunice,” said Lady 
Eliot with a touch of impatience, “she must be the 
one to suffer. But if Herbert Dampier marries 
again — a really nice, sensible woman — it may be all 
right by the tinie Eunice comes out. She’s quite 
nice-looking now — I used to think her so frightfully 
plain — and she may make a decent marriage in spite 
of it. I only hope Herbert will be careful in his 
second choice, but my own experience is that if a 
man begins by making foolish marriages he generally 
continues to do so.” 

Mrs. Parmeter was less concerned with Major 
Dampier’s possible matrimonial adventures at that 
moment than she was with the contemplation of 
Eunice’s immediate future. Was she to be the cats- 
paw between these two people? 

“You know I am really very sorry,” continued 


EUNICE 


223 


Lady Eliot. “I liked Eunice. She’s really a charm- 
ing child — you’ve quite civilized her, you know. 
But this is such a very unpleasant scandal. Of 
course, she won’t continue to live here with you?” 

“Do you mean you think her father will insist 
upon taking her away?” said Mrs. Parmeter, in a 
dismayed tone. “Of course he can make what 
arrangements he likes — ^but after all these years.” 

Lady Eliot looked at her with a sharp scrutiny, 
almost as if she were contemplating a very rare and 
interesting entomological specimen. 

“My dear Mrs. Parmeter — I was thinking of 
you. It must be so frightfully unpleasant for you 
to be mixed up in it at all I” 

It was certainly possible, she reflected, to be too 
simple. She even wondered if such innocence of the 
world were quite genuine. But surely Norman Par- 
meter, if he ever raised his nose from his books, 
must see the unwisdom of retaining Eunice in their 
midst. 

“You can’t imagine how the papers will ring with 
it. Anglo-Indian scandal — and all that kind of 
thing. I should really get rid of her before it comes 
on, if I were you !” 

Mrs. Parmeter flushed a little, and her hands, that 
lay clasped in her lap, tightened their hold upon each 
other, as if with an impulse of self-control. 

“She has been with us, on and off, for nearly seven 
years,” she said. 

“Oh, yes, I know — you’ve been quite extraor- 
dinarily good. And she’s a bright, attractive little 
thing — I’ve been glad to have her as a companion 
for Mildred. Mildred is really very fond of Eunice 
—I am afraid it may be a blow to her at first — when 
she realizes ” 

“You mean — they won’t even meet at school?” 


224 


EUNICE 


Mrs. Parmeter had rather the feeling that she was 
learning a difficult lesson. 

“I expect Miss Woolton will ask you not to send 
Eunice back. The religious teaching of the school 
is, as you know, ritualistic, and the girls are taught 
to regard marriage as a sacrament — just as you do 
yourself, dear Mrs. Parmeter. And though there is 
nothing against the poor child — she’s rather a show 
pupil just now — I feel sure that Miss Woolton will 
advise you very strongly that she has to think of her 
school. It wouldn’t do for the other girls to be able 
to say that Mrs. Dampier’s daughter was at school 
with them.” 

Lady Eliot rose to go. It had been necessary, 
unfortunately, to speak much more plainly than she 
had originally intended. But she had found Mrs. 
Parmeter quite unexpectedly dense. 

“I’m so glad to have had this little talk with you,” 
she said. “I felt sure you would understand all my 
fussiness about Mildred. When we come back in 
the autumn I am sure we shall find that Herbert has 
taken his Eunice away. It’s really the only thing 
to be done.” 

“It is the last thing I wish for. I should like to 
keep her with us always, and so, I am sure, would 
Norman.” 

Lady Eliot’s handsome dark eyes narrowed. 

“Not with two boys growing up, Mrs. Parmeter? 
When we have children we are really obliged as a 
duty to take prudent thought for the future. You 
surely would not wish Julian or Geoffrey to fall in 
love with Eunice a few years hence?” 

Her tone seemed to put Mrs. Parmeter in the 
wrong. 

“It is such a remote contingency that it is hardly 
worth while thinking about it now,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter, with a brave little smile. 


EUNICE 


22S 

Lady Eliot felt somehow annoyed. She said 
coldly : 

“I am glad to find you have taken it all so quietly. 
I was afraid with the very strict views Roman 
Catholics are obliged to hold that you would have 
been far more shocked!” 

The arrow held a little trickle of poison; it ex- 
torted a reply. 

“Whatever I may think about her mother’s very 
grave sin, I have only pity and sorrow for poor little 
innocent Eunice.” 


J|c S|C Jjs 

When her visitor had finally departed, Mrs. Par- 
meter discovered how greatly the interview had 
exhausted her. This woman had really seemed to 
think it advisable for her to send Eunice away. She 
had even suggested the possibility of one of her sons 
wishing to marry the girl in years to come. It 
forced her to examine the situation not only with 
regard to Eunice but far more closely with regard to 
Julian. For if either of them were to fall in love 
with the girl, who had been for half their lives as a 
sister to them, it would certainly be Julian. He 
loved her tenderly, had indeed always loved her all 
through his boyhood. The clearest thing she saw 
was Julian’s pain should Eunice be removed. She 
could almost feel it stabbing her. She was thinking 
quite as much of Julian as of Eunice. 

Eunice came back in a strangely silent mood from 
school at tea-time. As a rule she always sought out 
Mrs. Parmeter, or, failing her, she would climb up 
to Mr. Parmeter’s study and spend an hour or two 
with him, perhaps overlooking her lessons there for 
the next day. To both of them she often gave a 
graphic, entertaining survey of the little happenings 
of the day. But this evening there was nothing of 


226 


EUNICE 


the kind. She put her head into the drawing-room, 
where Mrs. Parmeter was sitting at tea, and said: 

“I’ll have my tea in the school-room to-day. I’ve 
got a letter to write.” 

“Come in and sit down for a few minutes, won’t 
you, Eunice?” said Mrs. Parmeter, feeling vaguely 
anxious. She also had a very strong suspicion that 
the letter was destined for Mildred, and she wished 
to prevent its being written if possible. 

“No — I’m afraid I can’t put it off. And I’ve got 
a lot of work to look over. You know to-morrow 
we have the history ‘exam.’ I’m simply awfully weak 
in history.” Eunice’s manner was obstinate, with a 
touch of arrogance. She was like that sometimes 
when things had not been going too well at school. 

“It can not be such a very important letter,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter, “the mail went yesterday. Who is 
it you wish to write to?” 

Eunice’s eyes flashed. 

“Why must I tell you? Why are you so curious?” 

For years she had not been heard to speak to any 
one in this rude, angry way. Mrs. Parmeter was 
not certain that she was suffering and that she was 
anxious to have some explanation of Mildred’s 
sudden absence. 

“I am not curious. I think I know. But if you 
are going to write to Mildred Eliot I had better 
advise you at once not to do so.” 

Eunice came abruptly into the room and closed 
the door. Her white, perturbed face was not 
pleasant to look upon; it was not quite the face of a 
child. It had something of the resolute, terrible 
obstinacy of a thwarted woman. 

“Why am I not to write to Mildred? What has 
she done?’’ she said in a suffocated tone. “I — I 
don’t care in the least what she’s done!” 

“Mildred has gone to her grandmother’s,” said 


EUNICE 


227 


Mrs. Parmeter quietly, “and Fm afraid if you do 
write to her she won’t get the letter. Eunice, don’t 
ask me to tell you why. It isn’t your fault and it 
isn’t Mildred’s. But Lady Eliot has her own 
reasons and the less we say about it the better.” 
She looked pitifully at Eunice, wishing she could have 
softened the blow, could have held all knowledge 
from her a little longer. But Lady Eliot, with her 
swift, drastic action, had rendered that impossible. 

Eunice belonged to the type that fights against 
pain as against some cruel enemy. It made her 
angry rather than sorrowful. 

“I don’t believe it I I don’t believe a word of it! 
Mildred would never have gone away without writ- 
ing to me — without even telling me that she was 
going. You are keeping something from me I” 

“Mildred has to do what she is told. You know 
that Lady Eliot is very strict about such things.” 

“Well, I’m going to write to her anyhow I I’ll 
find out what all the mystery’s about I Some of the 
girls were simply odious to-day, especially the ones 
that were jealous of me and Mildred. They soon 
found out I didn’t know anything.” Her eyes were 
aflame. 

Mrs. Parmeter rose from her seat and came 
toward her. 

“Eunice, dear. I’d rather you didn’t write. Wait 
a few days. And I’m very sorry the girls weren’t 
kind. Try to bear it quietly.” She laid her hand 
on the girl’s shoulder, but Eunice moved away 
abruptly. 

“No — no — you’re in the plot! You are trying 
to come between us. I know you never really cared 
about Mildred!” 

She went quickly out of the room. During term- 
time Eunice did not dine downstairs except on Sun- 
days, because when her work was finished she had an 
early supper and went to bed at nine o’clock. Mr. 


228 


EUNICE 


Parmeter disliked dining too early, especially in 
summer, when he often took a long walk in the cool 
of the evening. Mrs. Parmeter did not see Eunice 
again that night until she was in bed. She found 
her reading by the light of a shaded electric lamp. 

“I’ve written and I’ve sent the letter,” she an- 
nounced in a hard, defiant voice. “Next week, 
anyhow, I shall see Mildred and learn what all the 
fuss is about. Some footling thing, I suppose I” 

Mrs. Parmeter saw it would be cruel to keep the 
truth from her. Bitter though it would be for her 
in her present mood, there would be no use in con- 
cealing it from her until nearer the time. 

“But I’m afraid you won’t see Mildred next 
week,” she said. 

“I shall see her in Devonshire. You can’t pre- 
vent my going. Papa said I might I” 

“My dear — I’ve seen Lady Eliot. She has 
changed some of her plans. It won’t be convenient 
for her to receive you.” 

“Do you mean I’m not to go?” Eunice’s eyes were 
wide with surprise and dismay. Her heart sank 
and she shivered a little. 

“I’m afraid that’s what I do mean, Eunice dear.” 

“Why?” said Eunice. 

“I can only tell you that Lady Eliot’s plans are 
changed.” 

“I haven’t done anything,” said Eunice passion- 
ately, “I won’t be punished I” 

“It isn’t a punishment — it’s something we can’t 
help,” said Mrs. Parmeter. “I’m as sorry as you 
are, Eunice.” 

“Mildred has been sneaking! And I’ve done 
nothing. She must have been telling lies. I’ll go 
there to-morrow and insist upon finding out.” 

“You really mustn’t go there, dear. I must posi- 
tively forbid it,”, said Mrs. Parmeter. 

. Eunice suddenly began to cry. “Then you really 


EUNICE 


229 


mean I shall have to stay in this rotten place all the 
holidays without even Mildred or — or Gilfrid?” 

Mrs. Parmeter flinched a little. 

“Julian and Geoffrey will be back next week. 
Julian will be very glad to find you here.” 

“As if I cared whether he’s glad or not I Do you 
think he can make up for Mildred and all the lovely 
time I was to have had in Devonshire?” 

Mrs. Parmeter said quietly: “You must put out 
your light and try to sleep. Otherwise you’ll be fit 
for nothing to-morrow. And you know you want 
to please your father by taking a good place in the 
‘exams.’ I know that it’s a great trial — that it’s hurt- 
ing you. Try to be brave. Say some prayers and 
go to sleep.” She smoothed back the dark wavy 
hair from her forehead and stooping down a little 
kissed her. 

Eunice looked at her with hard eyes. 

“I shall ask papa to take me away. I hate 
Brighton now,” she said in a dull, defiant tone. 
“I’ve got enemies at school — I don’t want to go to 
Miss Woolton’s any more. People shan’t hurt me.” 
She was secretly astonished at Mrs. Parmeter’s con- 
tinued patience. Mildred would never have dared 
speak thus to her mother. But no fear of retribution 
stemmed the furious current of Eunice’s words. It 
was almost a relief to hurt some one, since she her- 
self had been so savagely hurt. “I feel that you are 
against me tool” she wound up with renewed fierce- 
ness. 

It was perhaps the first time that Mrs. Parmeter 
had realized the slenderness of her hold over Eunice, 
or had perceived how urgent was the need in the 
child’s life of some strong spiritual influence, such as, 
indeed, she had not been permitted to give her. If 
Eunice had been her own child she knew that she 
would have spoken to her as she had so often done 
to Julian and Geoffrey, pointing out frankly the in- 


230 


EUNICE 


evitability of suffering and hurt in every life. Of 
the joy of the saints when they received that suffering 
as a proof of their worthiness to endure in some 
measure what Christ had endured in every successive 
stage of the Redemption. Of the beauty of a soul 
that has borne with courage and dignity, yes, and 
with thankfulness, the discipline of such loving chas- 
tisement. These were indeed lessons which Catholic 
children are taught in early youth, not to render their 
lives hard and joyless, but to endow them with a 
strong spiritual support, of inestimable value in the 
hour of trial. If Mrs. Parmeter had been allowed 
to train Eunice in this way, the child would have had 
weapons at hand to help her now to stem this futile 
rebellion, this fierce anger against the sudden inflic- 
tion of pain. She even wondered for the first time 
if she had done wrong to take her, with all that had 
divided them so arbitrarily. Yet she had trained 
and taught her with a most assiduous care. She had 
done all she could within the limits allowed to her. 
But Eunice had so much of her mother’s nature, that 
wilfulness and obstinacy, that impatience of restraint, 
something too of that fatal fascination which every 
day became, as it were, more apparent in her. . . 
Mrs. Parmeter said very quietly : 

“You know I am never against you. I love you 
very much, Eunice.” She bent down and kissed 
her again with a wistful tenderness. 

Then she went out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXV 

/^N the following morning Lady Eliot sent a little 
note by hand to Mrs. Parmeter enclosing the 
letter Eunice had written to Mildred. It was un- 
opened, and she wrote by way of explanation : “I am 


EUNICE 


231 


sure you will understand why I think it best that the 
children should not correspond with each other for 
the present. I hoped, indeed, you had given Eunice 
a little hint. One can often do this without making 
tedious explanations.” 

Mrs. Parmeter had expected something of the 
kind, yet she too felt the rebuff ; it was almost as if 
Lady Eliot had included her in the rebuke thus 
delicately administered. And, in a sense, was it 
not her fault that Eunice had written and sent the 
letter? Was it not her fault for failing to exact a 
proper measure of obedience from her? Lady Eliot 
would not have permitted such an act of disobedience 
to go unpunished in her own daughter. She was a 
most kind and devoted mother, but she insisted upon 
her children obeying her. Even the turbulent babies 
had learned that they must not transgress in this 
respect. 

Mrs. Parmeter said nothing about the returned 
letter to Eunice. She shrank from bruising afresh 
that wounded, mutinous spirit. Later on, perhaps, 
when Eunice had recovered a little; not now, while 
the hurt was so new. In her heart she believed that 
Julian’s return would help to restore Eunice’s tran- 
quillity; he had an unconsciously soothing influence 
over her. But a whole week had still to elapse be- 
fore the boys’ expected return, and in the meantime 
a sullen, defiant Eunice appeared at the customary 
hours, left in the morning and returned at luncheon 
to go back again to school in the afternoon, silent 
and resentful. Norman Parmeter was scarcely 
aware of the changed condition of things; he was 
greatly preoccupied with his work just then, and 
frequently only appeared at dinner-time, when he 
and his wife were alone. 

It was the last day of the examinations, and on 
the following morning the holidays were to begin 


232 


EUNICE 


and Miss Woolton’s limited number of pupils would 
disperse, to be escorted for the most part by a com- 
petent chaperon to London, there to be met by their 
respective guardians. The breaking-up concert was 
to take place in the afternoon. Mrs. Parmeter sat 
down to luncheon alone. Eunice was sometimes, 
though not often, late for that meal, but it was ex- 
tremely probable that she had been detained at 
school by the preparations for the concert. So she 
did not feel any anxiety about her at first. But as 
the meal proceeded and she heard two o’clock strike 
she rose and went rather hurriedly to the telephone 
and called up Miss Woolton. 

To her great dismay she learned that Eunice had 
left the house ostensibly to go home at the usual 
time. She ran up quickly to the child’s room in the 
hope of finding her there. It was perfectly tidy, 
and there was no sign of any one’s having entered it 
since the maid had done it after Eunice’s departure 
to school in the morning. It was a very dainty little 
room. It had recently been re-painted and papered ; 
the blue curtains and carpet were new. Eunice had 
chosen them herself. 

But where was Eunice? Mrs. Parmeter opened 
desultorily cupboards and drawers in* the vague hope 
of discovering some clue to the mystery. They were 
all full of Eunice’s possessions, and the utmost order 
prevailed. Her shoes were arranged in neat rows ; 
one drawer held gloves and handkerchiefs ; another, 
stockings; and yet another, little piles of dainty lin- 
gerie run through with fresh blue ribbons. Nothing 
had been touched, and, as far as Mrs. Parmeter 
could judge, nothing had been removed. 

In spite of her now sharply aroused anxiety it was 
not at first that she even suspected Eunice had gone 
away. One does not normally anticipate the worst. 
She began to fear that some physical accident had 


EUNICE 


233 


overtaken her — perhaps even now she was lying un- 
conscious in a hospital. But she did begin to feel 
even then that something untoward had happened to 
Eunice. When that thought pressed upon her she 
was aware that she could no longer cope with the 
situation alone. She must go upstairs to consult 
Norman. She hurried to the top of the house, 
pushed open the study door, for once caring nothing 
if she disturbed him or not, and stood in front of 
him, panting and breathless, almost in tears. 

“Why, darling Ivy, what’s the matter?” he ex- 
claimed, putting down his pen and looking at her 
through his large, magnifying spectacles. 

“It — it is Eunice,” she said, with a sound that re- 
sembled a sob. 

“Eunice?” he repeated, in a bewildered tone. 
When suddenly aroused from his work he was 
always at first a little confused, as other people are 
when roughly awakened from slumber. “Why — 
what’s wrong with Eunice? Her father hasn’t 
come, has he? You said he couldn’t be here for 
another month at least!” 

“She isn’t here. She didn’t come back to 
luncheon. I’ve telephoned to Miss Woolton — she 
left school at the usual time. She isn’t in her room 
— she isn’t anywhere!^* 

His mind leaped to what was for him the only 
possible conclusion. 

“Do you think Mrs. Dampier’s kidnaped her? 
One reads of that kind of thing in American novels 1” 

This idea had certainly never remotely presented 
itself to Mrs. Parmeter’s mind. She had been far 
too much absorbed by the thought of Eunice’s un- 
usual behavior, her ill-temper, her sullenness, to seek 
further afield for trouble. She whitened a little, sat 
down by his side, wondering idly why she had 
allowed herself to be so unmindful of Lady Eliot’s 


234 


EUNICE 


warnings concerning the probable steps Mrs. Dam- 
pier would take when she learned that her husband 
intended to proceed against her. 

Norman took her hand in his, caressing it in the 
way that soothed her. His rare caresses were still 
wonderful to her. 

“I never thought of that. I didn’t tell you — I 
didn’t want to worry you about it more than I could 
help — but Lady Eliot sent Mildred away because 
she had heard about the divorce and she didn’t want 
the girls to see each other. Eunice was angry — 
you see I couldn’t tell her why — but she was upset, 
she took it very badly ; I think she believed I was in 
some way to blame. She has hardly spoken to me 
since. Once she said she wanted to go away — that 
she hated the place. Poor child — she was fond of 
Mildred in her own cold little way. She was hurt 
by the mystery — the absence of any clear ex- 
planation.” 

“Well, we must tell the police at once,” said Mr. 
Parmeter, with that sudden fierce energy which very 
passive people will sometimes betray upon emer- 
gency. “We can’t have her wandering about alone. 
You must give her a good talking to. Ivy, and point 
out how anxious she has made us. In future she 
must never be allowed to go to school alone. It 
would be uncommonly unpleasant for us if anything 
were to happen — after all poor Dampier’s warnings 
too I” 

“I can’t believe it’s anything to do with her 
mother. Eunice is in a naughty mood. And it 
seems too soon to make her disappearance public.” 

“It’s not a moment too soon,” said Norman 
briskly; “she’s got a good two hours’ start of us as it 
is. We must have the stations watched. Little 
minx I” He rose from his seat with a sigh, releasing 
his wife’s hand. “She’s been with us all these years. 


EUNICE 


235 


and, as you may say, she’s never given us a moment’s 
anxiety.” 

They went downstairs together. Norman seemed 
to know exactly what to do. Mrs. Parmeter ad- 
mired his practical, resolute way of dealing with the 
untoward affair; his clear sense of possibilities and 
probabilities; his determined energy, so unlike his 
normal physical indolence. There had been very 
few incidents during their life together to invite the 
display of these qualities. During the next few 
hours no stone was left unturned by which Eunice 
could be traced. Search was made all through the 
town, to places likely and unlikely ; the stations were 
watched and so were the piers. Mrs. Parmeter, 
who found herself unable to remain idly indoors, 
sought her all down the Western Road, through Ship 
Street, into the King’s Road, and along the Brighton 
Front, with its itinerant musicians, ventriloquists, 
and preachers — till it met that of Hove. She called 
ultimately at the Eliots’ house, although she had 
previously telephoned to know if Eunice had been 
there, but she felt that Lady Eliot might be able to 
throw some light on the matter. Lady Eliot sent a 
cool little message to say that she was resting and re- 
gretted that she could not receive her. The man- 
servant, respectful but slightly supercilious, added 
that Miss Dampier had not been there for several 
days. Mrs. Parmeter turned away from the house, 
aware that her pride had received a blow. She went 
back home, tired, exhausted, a little disheveled. 
Lady Eliot’s determination not to mix herself up 
with laffaire Dampier had no doubt prompted the 
snub. One could not look to her for any assistance. 
Mrs. Parmeter was by this time almost demoralized 
with anxiety. Norman had not returned. She sat for 
some time alone in the drawing-room, going every 
few minutes to the window in the hope of seeing 


EUNICE 


236 

Eunice. Tea was brought in, and she drank two 
cups of it thirstily, for the day, though cloudy, was 
very close and sultry. At every ring of the bell she 
prayed that it might be Eunice. She was sitting 
there when the door opened and Miss Woolton came 
into the room. She was the headmistress of the 
school and had come round as soon as the concert 
was over and the parents had returned to their own 
abodes. It was nearly seven o’clock when she came 
in. 

“I am distressed to hear of your terrible anxiety,” 
she said. “Of course, it has been simply odious for 
me too, having those detectives coming round this 
afternoon of all days. I really don’t know what the 
parents will say. Every girl in Eunice’s class was 
questioned. My very cleverest gjirls, Mrs.y Par- 
meter. You know she was so advanced she was 
nearly at the top of the whole school. Some of 
them got quite hysterical and we had to strike one 
out of the program.” 

“Of course, we had to put the matter into the 
hands of the police at once,” said Mrs. Parmeter 
wearily. “We must do all we can to find her.” 

Miss Woolton had a very determined manner, 
useful enough where the management of children 
was concerned, but apt to react unpleasantly upon 
already ravaged nerves. 

“I was going to ask you in any case not to send 
her back to us after the holidays,” she proceeded 
more smoothly. “I’ve already seen that it would have 
a detrimental effect on the school if she were allowed 
to remain. In fact, people have told me so.” She 
regarded Mrs. Parmeter questionably. “All this 
very painful scandal — and girls unfortunately read 
the papers so much nowadays, it’s difficult to keep 
anything of the kind from them. But it seems too 


EUNICE 


237 

bad that this should happen just the very last day of 
the term!” 

Mrs. Parmeter, prompted by a sudden impulse, 
said: 

“What has Eunice been like these last few days?” 

“I have hardly seen her myself, but I asked her 
class-mistress, Miss Smithson, and she tells me that 
her work for the first time has ueen unsatisfactory. 
Nor has her conduct been much better; she’s been 
sullen and a little impertinent when corrected. But 
nothing special happened this morning as far as I 
can ascertain, except that she had some sort of 
quarrel with Lina Johnson, one of the older girls. 
Lina was very much upset when the detectives ques- 
tioned her. You know the way these people always 
have of making you feel that you are guilty, or at 
least to blame!” 

Mrs. Parmeter listened with a kind of despairing 
patience. What did anything matter except that 
Eunice was missing? She felt strangely hard- 
hearted toward the hysterical Lina Johnson. 

“What did they quarrel about?” she asked dully, 
not because she believed it could possibly throw any 
light upon the obscure situation but merely to show 
she was listening. 

“Lina did admit under pressure, of course — it was 
because she told Eunice that Mildred Eliot had been 
sent away by her mother entirely on her account, 
and because Lady Eliot didn’t wish them to meet 
again.” 

“What a very cruel thing to say!” said Mrs. Par- 
meter. “She told me yesterday that some of the 
girls had not been very kind.” 

“Girls are but human, Mrs. Parmeter; and Eunice 
had never tried to make herself popular ; she was 
very arrogant with them all except Mildred. I dis- 
like their having particular friendships, but Eunice 


EUNICE 


238 

being a day-girl I relaxed the rule a little, especially 
as Lady Eliot did not disapprove. And Lina was 
not cruel. Even if she had been, a little cruelty is 
not bad discipline for a child so thoroughly spoiled 
and indulged as Eunice.” 

“But if it drives them to desperation?” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. 

“Desperation? What a strange word to use, 
Mrs. Parmeter! Do you really suppose that any- 
thing p^oor, dear little Lina could have said would 
make Eunice behave in such a wicked way? Lina’s 
been crying her eyes out — she’s terribly upset, poor 
child. That man was quite rough with her I I had 
to send her home in a cab with one of the maids 1” 

“Did — did the detective find out anything more?” 

“No. He found out very little indeed. But he 
intimidated poor Lina to such an extent that I am 
sure she did not know what she was saying. I have 
had my school for more than twenty years, and I 
can only say nothing of the kind has ever happened 
to us before. The police tool Surely you need 
not have told them where Eunice was at school 1” 

“We had to supply them with the fullest possible 
information,” said Mrs. Parmeter, drawing herself 
up a little haughtily, “and the first thing they asked 
was where Eunice had last been seen.” 

“Of course, you must not think I am blaming you,” 
continued Miss Woolton, in an aggrieved tone, “but 
I must say I wish you had been able to give me some 
hint as to the very peculiar circumstances in which 
Eunice is now placed. You must surely have known 
what was going to happen about this terrible divorce, 
and if you had told me about it I should have recom- 
mended you to take Eunice away from school at once 
and not wait for the end of the term. We could 
have come to an amicable arrangement by which I 
should not have allowed you to be the loser.” 


EUNICE 


239 


“I did not tell any one. I was most anxious that 
the affair should be kept from poor Eunice as long 
as possible. We have not known it ourselves very 
long. I do not want this innocent child to be pun- 
ished.” 

“The sins of the fathers — and particularly of the 
mothers,” announced Miss Woolton dryly. “And 
of course if I had been aware of all the facts — and 
I do feel, Mrs. Parmeter, that I had a right to know 
them — the very unfortunate episode of this after- 
noon might quite easily have been avoided. It was 
a most painful position to find oneself in, without 
any warning and through no fault of one’s own I I 
feel quite afraid to meet Mrs. Johnson — she is, you 
know, a sister of Sir Dighton Vinn — it will almost 
certainly end in her taking Lina away. Such a 
brilliant child, too, she would be a credit to any 
school ; she is an example to the others — so carefully 
trained at home. Lady Eliot has made no promise 
with regard to Mildred. I can not be sufficiently 
thankful that she sent Mildred away last Tuesday. 
Owing to her great intimacy with Eunice, she would 
have been questioned even more severely than poor 
Lina.” 

Mrs. Parmeter’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. 
She was in her own house, and she resented the tone 
which Miss Woolton had adopted; it seemed to in- 
clude herself in the general reproof she was bent on 
administering. But her voice was very quiet as she 
said : 

“I regret that you should have been so disturbed. 
But you will understand that in our anxiety about 
poor little Eunice my husband and I could not pos- 
sibly leave any stone unturned to find her. I am 
very sorry if your school has suffered. But in any 
case I shall make other arrangements for Eunice 
next term, even if her father does not prefer to take 


240 


EUNICE 


her away from Brighton altogether.” She rose and 
held out her hand. “I am sorry — I know you will 
excuse me — but as yet we have no clue and time is 
precious.” 

Miss Woolton was a little astonished at Mrs. 
Parmeter’s attitude, even at her evident fondness 
for Eunice Dampier, a child whom she herself had 
never cordially liked, in spite of her proficiency and 
brilliant attainments, which had lent a certain luster 
to the school. It was astonishing to her that Mrs. 
Parmeter should dismiss so lightly as mere side- 
issues the possible harm done to the school and the 
hysterical terror of Lina Johnson under examination. 
Only one thing seemed to occupy her mind and that 
was Eunice’s safety. Miss Woolton had, it must 
be admitted, no fears about Eunice at all. She was 
not the first girl to run away from home or from 
school in a fit of temper, nor would she be the last. 
She would come back driven by fear or hunger, or 
both. 

“I advise you to punish her very severely indeed 
when she does come home, Mrs. Parmeter,” she said 
as she moved toward the door. “It is the only way 
to treat such conduct. I remember I had a girl in 
my charge once who attempted something of the 
kind. The case was different — it was, in fact, an 
attempted elopement.” Miss Woolton cleared her 
throat. She could look back with complacency upon 
her own admirable handling of the situation. But 
Mrs. Parmeter showed no sign of interest as to the 
sequel of the narrative. Whatever had been done, 
it could not help her to discover Eunice now. 

When her visitor had departed, Mrs. Parmeter 
went to look for her husband. He had not returned, 
and while he was still out she did not like to leave 
the house lest he should return with some news. 
The heavy, sultry-looking clouds had fulfilled their 


EUNICE 


241 


promise of rain; in the distance a low rumble of 
thunder could be heard. Under that dark, rather 
lurid-looking sky the sea was stirring restlessly as if 
aware of an approaching storm. As Mrs. Parmeter 
stood by the window and looked at the waves a very 
sharp fear took possession of her. What if Eunice, 
driven by some childish despair, had taken the ir- 
remediable step? She had been in a mood when 
children very easily become desperate. Her raw 
little wound had been stung afresh by the remarks 
of the girls. Miss Woolton had indicated that 
something had actually been said with reference to 
Mildred’s departure and the cause of it frankly 
attributed to Eunice, and this must have roughly 
handled the sore spot with the cruelty, deliberate yet 
so unconscious of malice, that belongs to childhood. 
But whatever had happened, the result was the same. 
Eunice had gone away. Eunice could not be found. 

If Mrs. Parmeter had ever imagined so unlikely a 
contingency as this sudden vanishing of the child who 
for nearly seven years had been under their roof 
sharing their life, she could never have formed any 
mental picture of its probable effect upon her hus- 
band. She might have thought he would be as he 
normally was if any chance domestic disaster dis- 
turbed him in his work, that is, as controlling 
imperfectly his annoyance and resentment at being 
thus interrupted, and perhaps shrinking from the 
thought that he might be called upon to act, to 
assume the initiative. But never could she have 
pictured the real Norman as he appeared before her 
now, facing the catastrophe with cool, practical 
energy; dismayed but not hopeless; aware of great 
dangers, yet displaying no sign of nervousness. 

These unsuspected qualities in him of energy and 
resource startled her; she had so long looked upon 
her Norman as a being “with his head in the clouds.” 


242 


EUNICE 


As a loyal, loving, and solicitous wife she had en- 
deavored to make that sojourn in the clouds as 
undisturbed as possible. She respected his work 
quite as much as if he had had to go daily to a city 
office to accomplish it, and she took both him and 
it very seriously indeed. His lack of interest in 
domestic affairs, extending sometimes to really im- 
portant questions concerning their two sons, had 
often secretly piqued her; his aloof detachment was 
disconcerting to one so absorbed in her children as 
Ivy Parmeter. To-day he was very human; his feet 
trod surely upon the earth. There was something 
passionate in the eager energy he devoted to this 
heart-breaking search. He came in to dinner, left 
again directly afterward and urged his wife to go to 
bed and get a good night’s rest. She would need 
her strength to-morrow. He had utterly given him- 
self up to the task of finding the little lost Eunice. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

W HEN Norman had gone out to renew his search, 
Mrs. Parmeter went up to her room. The 
night was still very sultry, and she sat down beside 
the open window. She could see the long lines of 
lights on the Front, pricking the brown purple gloom 
like steadily shining jewels. She could see the sea 
beyond, lying out under the stars like a deep, somber, 
restless shadow. And she could hear the sound of 
it, dull, deep, rhythmical, as it beat against the shore 
and the great breakwaters that were there to resist 
it. The sound seemed to be beating with heavy pain 
upon her heart. 

She was up early on the morrow, yet when she 
awoke £.fter a restless night in which she only won 


EUNICE 


243 


sleep toward dawn, she found that Norman had 
already gone out. The boys were to return that day 
at about three o’clock, and for the first time in her 
life she actually dreaded their coming. Always be- 
fore, she had looked forward to their return as 
eagerly as they did themselves ; she was like a girl in 
her excitement. But now she shrank from that 
meeting with Julian. He would not reproach her; 
he would understand that whatever untoward thing 
had happened she was in no sense to blame. But it 
was the thought of his speechless suffering that un- 
nerved her. 

Eunice had always accompanied her to the station 
to meet the boys on their return. Sometimes, it is 
true, she had made some remonstrance, voted the 
expedition a bore, and announced that she was mak- 
ing a sacrifice in leaving Mildred that afternoon. 
But she had never failed in the end to come, and the 
boys would certainly have found something missing 
to the perfection of that first moment had she not 
been there. 

To go alone, therefore, meant the first inception 
of some tragic change that must certainly impress 
them immediately. It would convey its sharp sig- 
nificance to Julian, emphasizing the slenderness of 
their hold upon Eunice, a fact that of late had almost 
ceased to torment him. She could imagine his, 
“Where’s Eunice, mother?” and even now she could 
think of no reply to avert subsequent questioning and 
explanation. It would be cruel to keep anything 
back from Julian, to torture him with the curiosity 
that is an essential yet somewhat degrading factor of 
love. 

Sometimes she wished she had not that close and 
intimate consciousness of what was passing in 
Julian’s mind. It was like a sixth sense with her, 
so sharply intuitive that she could not repel it. She 


244 


EUNICE 


hid it from him, knowing that the knowledge would 
hurt that curious reticence and detachment of soul. 
She knew as much or even more of his inarticulate 
suffering than he did himself. And she knew too of 
that fear that had grown up with him from his boy- 
hood — the dread that Eunice’s parents would come 
and take her definitely, decisively away. 

She went alone to the station. It was crowded 
and astir with people, eager, energetic, or merely 
fatigued and bored. She noticed the now familiar 
face of the detective watching with his profession- 
ally observant and vigilant eyes the arrivals and 
departures — always on the lookout for a girl of 
fourteen with dark hair and eyes, dressed in a blue 
serge coat and skirt, a white muslin blouse, a straw 
hat with dark-blue ribbon. She herself saw many 
that answered to the description (there was nothing 
very distinctive about Eunice’s manner of dressing 
in those days; she looked like a hundred other 
school-girls) , but they were all accompanied by older 
people and mostly formed part of a group of chil- 
dren going home for the holidays. 

It was very hot at the station and the acrid smell 
of smoke filled the air disagreeably. She was too 
early for the train and wandered rather aimlessly up 
and down the long grey platform. She could not help 
thinking of those other homecomings when Eunice 
had been with her, prattling at her side. . The tears 
rushed to her eyes. It had all been such a pitiful 
failure, this endeavor to make Eunice feel as if she 
were part of their lives and like their own daughter, 
only a daughter that must be treated with an added 
tenderness and indulgence. Had they never won 
their way to this alien child’s heart? She remem- 
bered Eunice’s hard little speeches, announcing her 
hatred of Brighton, her wish to live elsewhere. And 
then, without a word to any one, she had gone. 


EUNICE 


245 

Mrs. Parmeter controlled her tears. She must at 
least look happy and smiling to greet her boys. 

The train rolled into the station at last with a 
shriek and roar that sounded triumphant. Doors 
were flung open; hurrying travellers emerged with 
cinematographic effect. Mrs. Parmeter saw two 
tall figures running eagerly down the platform. She 
went forward to meet them, almost forgetting 
Eunice in her pleasure at seeing them again. How 
tall Julian was — his face on a level with hers. Next 
holidays he would outstrip her in height altogether. 
Geoffrey was smaller, built more squarely and 
strongly, fair and beautiful. She kissed him first, 
still keeping up the old custom. Geoffrey never 
seemed changed to her, his development was so 
normal. But with Julian it was different; he was 
more changed, even outwardly, each time. He was 
taller, paler, and thinner now, with something 
thoughtful and manly in his expression, though the 
eyes were sunken and a little weary, a sign that he 
had been working desperately, though the results 
might not prove very brilliant. She had barely re- 
leased him when his mouth framed the words : 
“Why, where’s Eunice? Hasn’t she come?” And 
he looked about him as if sure that she must be there. 

“She couldn’t come to-day. I’ll explain pres- 
ently,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

The words slipped easily from her lips as she had 
intended they should. They mustn’t be allowed to 
know as yet that things had gone so horribly awry. 
Later — yes, later — she could break it to Julian. A 
cloud had already gathered on his face, as if he felt 
that somehow Eunice had failed him. 

“Gone with her darling Mildred, I suppose?” 
said Geoffrey, with his broad, charming grin. 

“No — not to-day. Mildred’s in Devonshire with 
her grandmother.” 


246 


EUNICE 


She occupied herself with porter and luggage, and 
when the trunks were piled on a cab she and the boys 
got in and drove aw^. Julian sat beside his mother, 
not speaking. Geoffrey chattered cheerfully during 
the short drive home. They had glimpses of a dark 
blue sea, running high and flecked with lines of white, 
framed perpendicularly by the houses on each side 
of the narrow streets that run shoreward. There 
was a strong salt breeze, and sharp gleams of sun- 
light illuminated the irregular lines of tall creamy 
white houses along the Front. In the King’s Road 
there were many carriages and a few motors which 
were, however, less frequently to be seen in those 
days. The summer season was at its height, with 
its crowds of excursionists that poured daily into the 
town, its innumerable children and nurses thronging 
the beach. Something of the very gaiety that pre- 
vailed hurt Mrs. Parmeter. She gazed earnestly 
at all the passers-by, as if trying to discover Eunice’s 
slight, blue-clad figure among them. The task of 
telling Julian assumed every moment a more formi- 
dable aspect. 

The cab stopped in front of the house in Bruns- 
wick Terrace. Geoffrey flung himself out and 
Julian followed more gravely. The door was 
opened, the servants smiled discreet, respectful wel- 
comes, and they passed into the hall. Mr. Par- 
meter emerged from the dining-room, where evi- 
dently he had been waiting for their return. 

/‘Hullo, boys!” he said, and then he turned to his 
wife. ‘‘Ivy,” he went on, “I’ve had a telegram — 
Eunice is in London with her mother.” 

The door was shut, already the luggage was dis- 
appearing into back regions. They all four stood 
facing one another in bewildered silence. The boys, 
knowing nothing of the happenings of the last few 
days, received the news as if a small shock had been 
administered. Mrs. Parmeter was the first to move. 


EUNICE 


247 


She took the telegram from her husband’s hands. 
*^Eunice is with me. Do not try to find her. D. 
DampierJ* The postmark was a London one, be- 
yond that there was no clue. 

“Won’t she be here these ‘hols’?” inquired Geof- 
frey. 


No, dear, I don’t think so.” 

good thing 1 She was getting an awful 



rotter I " 

Julian’s eyes flashed. His face was curiously set 
and white. 

“She and that putty-faced Mildred!” pursued 
Geoffrey, with his gay, insolent laugh. 

In the general tension it was almost a relief to 
have one person so indifferent, so disagreeably 
normal and unmoved. 

Norman Parmeter appeared to take no notice of 
what his son was saying. His thoughts were pur- 
suing a perfectly different line, and he said suddenly : 

“So now we’ve got Dampier to reckon with. 
That woman snapped up her prey at the psycholog- 
ical moment. We’ve been criminally careless, my 
dear Ivy, and Dampier has every right to tell us so I” 

Julian spoke for the first time. 

“Why did she go? Didn’t she know we were to 
come back to-day? I thought ^u told us she was 
to go to Devonshire with the Eliots? She might 
have waited one day more 1” 

“Poor Ju ! He’s going to blub I” said Geoffrey. 
“He was always soppy about her.” 

Julian looked at his brother with dark, almost 
tragic hostility, but he said nothing more. For it 
did not matter — nothing really mattered except the 
one incontrovertible fact that she had gone. Her 
mother had fetched her, as surely they had always 
known that she would. She had the right to step in, 
just whenever she chose, and break their hearts. 
Eunice didn’t belong to them. She wasn’t really 


EUNICE 


248 

their sister, as they had often tried to make them« 
selves believe. She had gone — perhaps she had 
been glad to go. She would regret Mildred, per- 
haps, but not Geoffrey, not himself. Last holidays 
she had sometimes laughed at him, at what she called 
his queer ways. She had reminded him that once 
Gilfrid Eliot had called him a freak. And now she 
had gone back to her mother. He felt that this time 
it would certainly be forever. This time there would 
be no reprieve. 

Slowly he turned away and stumbled toward the 
stairs, almost as if he had been blind. He went up 
to his own room. How thankful he was that he 
didn’t share it with Geoffrey now. He went in and 
shut and locked the door. To be alone. . . Yes, 
that was the only thing. Otherwise it was 
torture . . . 

He sat looking seaward, puzzled, bewildered, and 
with a kind of deep, passionate despair that filled 
not only his whole heart but all the world. Never 
had he felt thus since the day when they had come 
to tell him that Baby Sister had gone to heaven. 
There had been the same surprise that seemed to hit 
one senseless, the same mystery, a clutching of thin 
air in a world grown suddenly unsolid, confused, 
obscure. . . 

Hours and hours passed away. So many hours 
that he was able to watch the dusk fall outside. 
First the color went. It had been brilliant with the 
sunset, the sky was all painted with rose and gold 
and bars of pure bright green, and the sea lay 
beneath it like a silken silver shield. Twilight took 
away those rainbow hues, robbed the summer 
raiment of passing women of its color, and changed 
all to a uniform grey-purple that was one with the 
night. Then gradually the darkness spread itself 
over the scene as if it had opened broad sable wings 
that swallowed up all shape and detail. . . The 


EUNICE 


249 


lights showed steadily now all along the esplanade, 
in regular lines that formed a perspective of moon- 
light-colored ovals. Beyond was the sea, hushed 
too by the spell of approaching night; its voice was 
almost drowned by the passing traffic. 

So it had come true — this bad dream which for 
so long had ceased to molest him. Its failure to 
recur had wrapped him in a false peace. Yet he 
had always known this very thing would come to 
pass. He had wanted, when it came, to meet it 
bravely. But always he had pictured himself as 
being there — as exacting promises that she would 
return to them. He had thought it would be abrupt, 
like the sharp cut of a knife. And Geoffrey had 
pretended to be glad. He often hid his feelings by 
a display of bravado, yet it was horrible to Julian 
that he had been able to express his pleasure at 
Eunice’s departure. He had gone very near to 
hating Geoffrey then. 

In time they would tell him more. Just when she 
went, the manner of her going. Perhaps there had 
been some message for him — surely she could not 
have gone carelessly, without throwing him a single 
word. He dreaded exact knowledge on these points 
almost as much as his curiosity demanded it, feeling 
that perhaps it would hold some fresh pain. All 
the time he was saying to himself subconsciously: 
“It is wicked of me to feel in such despair. I ought 
to be willing to give her up. I oughtn’t to feel as 
if I had lost everything in heaven and earth.” Yes, 
soon he would begin to pray. The refuge of prayer I 
He began to see in this sorrow a punishment for all 
his wretched mean little sins. Sins of childhood, 
of his school-days — jealousy of Geoffrey, of his 
powers, his popularity, even of his success — out- 
burst of petulant anger that caught him unawares — 
a miserable little lie or two. They arrayed them- 
selves before him now, a somber, stained procession. 


250 


EUNICE 


gathering darkness from one another. His good 
conduct had been praised, as it seemed, to his own 
shame. He deserved punishment. But this? 
There were some souls, as he knew, to whom detach- 
ment from creatures was taught by violent processes. 

It was a long time before even his mother sought 
him. When she did, it was under cover of darkness. 
He was so still as she came softly to his door that she 
fancied he must have gone out. But he rose in re- 
sponse to her knock and unlocked the door, switching 
on the light as he did so. 

“Come in, mother,’’ he said quietly. 

It was a relief to her to see how calm his face was 
in spite of its deathly pallor. 

He led her to the window ; they sat down side by 
side. 

“Tell me, please. There’s a great deal I don’t 
know,” he said. 

And she told him. It was kinder not to leave 
anything unsaid. She even showed him Major Dam- 
pier’s last letter. He heard, before she left him, 
of Lady Eliot’s visit, of Mildred’s departure, of 
Eunice’s misery at school during those last days, of 
her final flight, which had not as yet been fully ex- 
plained to them. He utterly forgot himself — as, 
indeed, she intended that he should — in the contem- 
plation of Eunice’s unhappiness, of the sudden 
disaster that had overtaken her life. 

“I was getting to think she’d be here always,” he 
said at last. “These last years I haven’t been 
afraid any more that they would take her away.” 

“And I hoped, too, that her father would continue 
to leave her with us,” said Mrs. Parmeter. 

“But he will — when once he finds her. It ought 
to be easy. I don’t see how she can go on hiding 
her. Especially as Eunice will hate being with her 
mother.” 


EUNICE 


251 


^‘Why, what makes you think that, Julian?” 

“They will be quite strangers to each other after 
four years,” he said, “and Eunice was never happy 
with her mother even when she was quite little. It 
was bad enough when they were in Rome, but it was 
ten times worse that winter she spent in London with 
them. She told me about it — ^you see, she always 
talked to me when she felt like it. And she had got 
used to being here. She’ll want to come back — 
she’ll find a way, no matter how much Mrs. Dampier 
may try to stop her.” He strained his eyes toward 
the darkness that now somberly embraced sea and 
sky, as if he could picture across it that young, slight, 
vivid figure coming toward him. . . “She will come 
back,” he went on, with hard determination in his 
voice, “if only she wants to enough. And if he goes 
back to India whom can Major Dampier leave her 
with if it isn’t with us?” 

“Don’t count upon it too much,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter; “he may prefer her to live where the story is 
less known than it is here.” 

“Then we ought to go away too,” he said, “to 
make a home for her wherever her father likes. 
We can’t just leave her to be miserable with 
strangers.” 

He went down to dinner that evening with a face 
which bore no traces of extraordinary emotion. 
The boys were alone with their mother. Norman 
Parmeter had gone to London. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

N ow one knew for certain that she was — or rather 
had been yesterday — in London ; there was no 
ground for the hopelessness that up till the arrival 
of the telegram had so possessed the Parmeters’ 


252 


EUNICE 


household. Julian only wished that he had been 
invited to accompany his father; he felt the restless- 
ness of enforced inaction ; and he had a secret con- 
viction that in some way he could have materially 
assisted in the search. Now that he was in posses- 
sion of all the facts of that tragic little sequence, he 
was able to assure himself that some trick had been 
played. Eunice would never have gone off with her 
mother of her own accord and without a very vital 
reason for so doing. She had been lured away 
under false pretences, undoubtedly encouraged by 
the knowledge that since things had been going so 
badly in Brighton, an exchange for the worse, just 
then, was hardly possible. If his father had only 
realized that he was nearly sixteen and fast growing 
up he might have thought of allowing him to go with 
him. But Norman Parmeter seemed somehow 
persistently to overlook the fact that his sons were 
approaching manhood. He often spoke of them 
and probably nearly always thought of them col- 
lectively as the “brats,’’ persons who if unduly en- 
couraged might be found to thrust themselves for- 
ward and occupy too prominent a position in the 
little cosmos of Brunswick Terrace. But as a 
matter of fact on this particular occasion Norman 
had not contemplated his sons from any point of 
view. They had hardly existed for him, except in 
that first moment of their arrival, when they had 
shown a disagreeable tendency to squabble, to give 
each other “back-chat.” One of them — which was 
it? — had accused the other of “being soppy” about 
Eunice. By the time Julian had made his exit, 
groping his way, bewildered and confused, toward 
the stairs, Mr. Parmeter’s mind had once more 
assumed its absolute absorption in the task of finding 
Eunice — a feat that seemed less difficult now that 
they held this clue. She must be found before 


EUNICE 


253 


Major Dampier’s arrival. If he decided to come 
ovedand from Brindisi or Marseilles — Mr. Par- 
meter was a little vague about the route from Bom- 
bay— he might be here even sooner than they 
imagined. Mrs. Dampier was as obviously bent on 
vengeance as any heroine of transpontine melo- 
drama, and his present occupation was to frustrate 
this pious intention. Otherwise, how could he meet 
Dampier face to face, with the avowal that he had 
so signally, colossally, failed in his suretyship? 

Norman never once, even in his thoughts, blamed 
Ivy; he only blamed himself for his selfish absorption 
in work that was of no mortal consequence just when 
things were advancing to a crisis. He hadn’t even 
known that his little Eunice — it was thus he desig- 
nated her — was going through a time of sharp trial, 
tragic to a sensitive child. She had felt hostile 
forces about her, and had groped blindly in the dark 
to try to ascertain whence they came and why they 
were persistently directed against herself. He 
ought to have realized this, and, because their mutual 
relations were so sympathetic, so intimate, he would 
have taken her aside and told her as much as he 
could of that unhappy story of which she was the 
innocent deeply-to-be-pitied victim. She had needed 
some assurance, some explanation of the kind, to 
help her to bear it all with courage. Above all, he 
wouldn’t have let her return to school after Mil- 
dred’s departure ; she should have been spared those 
last unhappy days and the petty stabs of Lina John- 
son and her kind. When he was in the train, on his 
way to London, he remembered that she hadn’t, for 
at least a week, climbed the stairs to his den. He 
had not thought much about it, knowing that the 
school examinations were taking up most of her time. 
He had really been too busy just then to miss her. 
The knowledge of his own remissness attacked him 


254 


EUNICE 


now, flagellating him. He had made a fetish of his 
work while all the time a tragedy, in which the being 
who was almost dearest to him in the whole world 
was involved, was being enacted under his own roof. 
Could egoism further go than in that dreadful, 
callous indifference of his? Oh, when she came 
back how he would make up to her for all his past 
negligence I 

j|c :fs :jc 

He ran the pair to earth on the following after- 
noon at a hotel in Bath. Mrs. Dampier — unaware 
or perhaps contemptuous of the ability of Scotland 
Yard in following up so slight a clue as her telegram 
afforded — was already congratulating herself upon 
having got safely away. She was not at all dis- 
turbed by the weeping of Eunice who, enticed to 
accompany her while on her way from school with 
the lure that her father was eagerly awaiting her in 
London, had come to realize that she was the hap- 
less victim of a plot which if successful might prevent 
her from seeing him again. Mrs. Dampier’s 
schemes for the future were slightly wild and in- 
choate, but she had visions of taking Eunice to one 
of the more accommodating republics of South 
America where English law would be powerless to 
touch her, and there make her own terms with Major 
Dampier. Eunice was to have her hair cut short 
and to be disguised as a boy. They would leave 
England by one of the smaller ports, where no one 
would be on the lookout for them. Mrs. Dampier 
counted very largely upon a lack of practical wisdom 
which had seemed to her so largely to characterize 
“those excellent Parmeters.” She didn’t believe 
them capable of summoning the strong arm of the 
law to their aid and even assisting it in the following 
up of clues. In any case, they would probably 
delay for several days before taking so drastic a 


EUNICE 


255 


step; people in England had always a nervous dread 
of anything like publicity, and of seeing their names 
in the papers, and she was certain that the Parmeters 
held all those conventional superstitions. It was 
curious that she never suspected the extent and 
measure of their devotion to Eunice; there was not 
one of them — with the possible exception of Geof- 
frey — who would not have submitted to being cut in 
pieces, as the saying goes, for her. Mrs. Dampier 
found Eunice so unattractive herself that she could 
not believe the child was likely to evoke any such 
passion of devotion in other quarters. Eunice, find- 
ing that she had been grossly deceived and lured 
away under totally false pretences, was aghast at the 
situation in which she now discovered herself. She 
would have communicated with the Parmeters if she 
had been able to ; it was at the sight of her writing a 
letter that her mother revealed to her how utterly 
she was now separated from them. 

“Give me that letter, Eunice,” said Mrs. Dampier; 
“I can’t let you write letters.” 

Eunice had laid her hand on the sheet. “I can’t 
give it to you,” she had told her. “It is for Mrs. 
Parmeter. She will wonder where I am.” 

“Let her wonder!” Mrs. Dampier’s laugh held 
a disagreeable sound. “Now give me that letter at 
once I” 

Eunice’s hand kept close hold of the paper. Mrs. 
Dampier went across the room and took up her 
parasol. It had an elaborately carved ivory handle. 
She brought it down suddenly and with considerable 
force upon the rebellious little hand. Eunice gave 
a cry of pain and withdrew her hand, which showed 
a little trickle of blood where the sharp carving had 
cut through the skin. 

“You have still to learn obedience,” said Mrs. 
Dampier, possessing herself of the letter. “It is a 


256 


EUNICE 


pity I have not had the care of you all these years. 
You would have learned it long ago if I had.” Her 
voice was very hard and in her beautiful eyes there 
was a wicked little look of triumph. 

That incident had happened the first night in 
London, when the distracted household at Brighton 
was in the throes of its first anguish. If Eunice had 
been less unhappy herself she might have given more 
thought to the misery her unexplained absence must 
have produced. But the scene, the blow, the knowl- 
edge that her father wasn’t there after all, eagerly 
awaiting her, the cruelty which prevented her from 
communicating with those beloved people who had 
every right to know that she was at least safe and 
well, blinded her to other considerations of their pos- 
sible anxiety. If only she could run away — go back 
to them — implore their forgiveness. For there had 
been at the back of her own rash action a desire to 
get away from all the abundant unpleasantness of 
the past week; a rebellious little resolve to show her 
own independence of every one at Brighton. Except 
at the first moment, she had not needed any very 
great persuasion to accompany Mrs. Dampier to the 
station. “Couldn’t she go home and fetch a few 
things — just what she needed for the night — and 
say good-by to Mrs. Parmeter?” That had been 
the sum total of her hesitation, which was quickly 
overruled by her mother’s: “Certainly not. We 
shall miss the train if you do anything so utterly silly. 
And papa’s promised to meet us at Victoria — ^you 
can’t disappoint him.” 

She had hustled Eunice into a cab ; it was the quick 
way she contrived everything that took the girl’s 
breath away, and seemed to sweep her before her as 
dust before the wind. Eunice had barely had time 
to give another thought to poor Mrs. Parmeter — 
sitting down to a solitary luncheon by this time, in 


EUNICE 


257 


all probability — ^before she found herself sitting 
opposite to her mother in a third-class railway car- 
nage. The train moved out of the station and they 
were on their way to London and papa. Papa 
would be sorry to hear how horrid the other girls, 
especially Lina Johnson, had been to her at school. 

The London detectives had let no possible clue 
escape them, and two of them accompanied Norman 
Parmeter to Bath, “in case the lady gave trouble.” 
Norman would have preferred to go alone, but he 
concluded professional etiquette demanded that he 
should be accompanied; so he made no demur. 
And, of course, if he failed to take advantage of the 
undoubted clue now offered, these two colleagues 
might prove useful in disentangling others for their 
subsequent guidance. He was new to the game, he 
confessed to himself, and there was no doubt but 
that he had to deal with a desperate, determined 
woman who had kidnaped her own child and would 
be little likely to surrender her without a struggle. 
It became more and more pitiful in his eyes that 
Eunice should be exposed to such tragic and sordid 
experiences when their whole policy throughout the 
past seven years had been to preserve her from all 
contaminating knowledge. He knew the crystal 
purity of that mind, and he hated to think that it 
should have suffered any pollution. 

Mrs. Dampier had not much chance of eluding 
the sleuth-hounds, as Mr. Parmeter secretly called 
those two genial men who traveled to Bath by the 
same train as himself but in a different compartment. 
It was hardly to be supposed that so striking a pair 
could be missing for long. And when Mr. Parmeter 
walked into the dingy sitting-room occupied by Mrs. 
Dampier and her daughter — taken, however, under 
quite a different name — he saw that she was more 
striking-looking than ever. He had always been 


258 


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sensible of her beauty, which was of an uncommon 
kind and varied a good deal, but it had now a far 
more arresting quality than of yore. She had had re- 
course to artificial aids to simulate the bygone 
delicacy of her skin, the beautiful fairness of her 
abundant hair. It was skilfully done, and she was 
wise enough to leave the grey eyes with their thick 
but fair lashes untouched. 

As he came into the room he was aware of a little 
stir. Mrs. Dampier sprang up, indignantly vocif- 
erous at the unsolicited interruption. But Eunice 
dashed past her mother and with the old, childish, 
confident gesture flung herself headlong into Mr. 
Parmeter’s arms. It gave him quite a thrill to feel 
this sudden expression of her affection so sponta- 
neously offered. There was no doubt of her joy at 
seeing him again. He held her, stroking back her 
disheveled dark hair, while she cried and sobbed with 
sheer relief. He tried to make her feel by the very 
tightness of his clasp that she was safe, dimly dis- 
cerning that some assurance of the kind was just then 
extremely necessary. And she was trembling so that 
he had to use some strength in order to support her. 
He never imagined, however, that fear played any 
part in the emotions that swayed her. 

“You understand, don’t you,” he said, his face 
turned full toward Mrs. Dampier, “that I’ve come 
to take Eunice home?” 

“You can’t take her away!” said Mrs. Dampier, 
her grey eyes flashing dangerously; “she’s my own 
child — I’ve a right to her — you’ll only get yourself 
into trouble.” 

“I have her father’s letter warning me that you 
would probably make some attempt to get hold of 
her. We’ve been busy following up clues for two 
days. You don’t suppose that having found her I 
should leave her here with you?” 


EUNICE 


259 


Eunice felt strangely comforted and reassured by 
these resolute words. She looked up at him through 
her tears, and Julian’s old phrase came back to 
her mind when as a little boy he used to say that 
“father had sparks in his eyes.” There were 
sparks in them now that threatened to kindle into 
actual flame. 

“Eunice, tell him you won’t go back to them! 
Tell him you prefer to stay with me. Remember, 
I am your mother 1” said Mrs. Dampier, in a harsh, 
commanding tone. 

“No! No!” said Eunice, clinging more closely 
than ever to Mr. Parmeter’s protecting arm. 

Mrs. Dampier made a sudden forward movement 
and tried to wrench Eunice from his grasp. She 
was beyond all control and she made the sudden 
fierce dash to possess herself of Eunice with such 
force that she almost succeeded in gaining her objec- 
tive. Eunice screamed and clung desperately to 
Mr. Parmeter, hiding her face against him. With 
his free arm he managed somehow to ward off the 
approach of that fierce, tigress-like woman. She 
was terrible in her undisciplined anger. If she had 
been prompted by love for Eunice he could have 
made excuses for her. But he knew perfectly well 
that her sole reason for wishing to possess herself 
of the person of her child was for purposes of re- 
venge upon the man whose home she had ruined, 
whose honor she had stained. 

She needed now no artificial aid to color her face; 
her cheeks were stained with an angry crimson. 

“Give her to me! You shall not have her! I 
tell you she’s my own child. I shall teach her that 
I’m her mother — that I’ve a right to do what I like 
with her!” 

“Don’t let her touch me!” shrieked Eunice, 


26 o 


EUNICE 


shrinking from the hand she saw suddenly upraised. 

Mr. Parmeter parried the blow. He felt that in 
this mood she was capable of tearing the child in 
pieces. He gave a shout and the door was immedi- 
ately opened, and the two genial gentlemen whose 
plain tweed suits gave no indication as to the nature 
of their calling came into the room. Mrs. Dampier 
fell back before them and became a little hysterical. 
They stood there, forming a guard, while Mr. Par- 
meter half-carried, half-supported Eunice out of the 
room. 

“Are you really taking me home? Can you for- 
give me?” was her first intelligible remark when he 
had put her into a cab and they were rattling over 
the cobbled paving of the streets. 

“Yes, we’re going home. Don’t talk now, dar- 
ling. Some day you shall tell me all about it.” 

It needed nothing more than the infinite tenderness 
with which he uttered those words to prove to her 
abundantly that she was forgiven. She had 
awakened from a most evil dream, in which the prin- 
cipal factor had been her own blind terror of her 
mother, to a knowledge that she was once more 
safely protected by these people who had assumed 
responsibilities toward her that they were not in- 
clined lightly to forego. 

He stopped once at a post-office to despatch a 
telegram to his wife so that she should not be left 
in suspense a moment longer than was necessary, and 
then they resumed their journey to the station. 

“When shall we get home?” Eunice asked 
sleepily, when they had been about an hour in the 
train. 

“Well, we may catch a late train down to-night,” 
said Mr. Parmeter. 

“Will Julian be there?” asked Eunice. 


EUNICE 


261 


“Yes, he came home yesterday,” said Mr. Par- 
meter, a little astonished at the question. 

“I want to see Julian,” she said, and then she fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 



LTHOUGH Eunice was thus restored to them, the 


Parmeters knew they could not regard this as 
in any way a permanent arrangement, until Major 
Dampier came to England and accomplished the un- 
pleasant task of divorcing his wife and obtaining the 
custody of their only child. He arrived in Brighton 
not many weeks after Eunice’s return to Brunswick 
Terrace, and when she had recovered with the happy 
elasticity of youth from that brief but terrible time 
with her mother. If he had not been expected so 
soon they would certainly have taken her away from 
Brighton, fearing perhaps other and more deter- 
mined attempts to abduct her. But Julian was there 
and Julian constituted himself her bodyguard; she 
was never allowed to leave the house without him. 
Geoffrey had plunged into that whirl of cricket and 
golf which the summer holidays always meant for 
him, with spells of sea-fishing in between. 

Major Dampier was considerably changed since 
his last visit, nearly five years ago. His white hair 
was as thick as ever and gave him an imposing, 
leonine appearance ; but his face was oddly thin and 
deeply lined, and his eyes were even more restless 
and unhappy than they used to be, softening only 
when they rested upon Eunice. 

It was so difficult for him to break to the Par- 
meters — to whom he was, when all was said and 
done, so deeply indebted — the news that he was going 


262 


EUNICE 


to take Eunice away with him. He couldn’t live 
without her any longer; she was all he had to care 
for, and if for her own sake he had had to part with 
her for so long, circumstances were now changed and 
he could have her with him without detriment. 

It could never take a visitor to the house in Bruns- 
wick Terrace very long to perceive that Eunice was 
the fixed planet round which everything else re- 
volved. It was due to no effort on her part; she 
had simply, as it were, assumed that position and 
oddly retained it through all the difficult years of her 
somewhat unruly childhood. She had them all, 
more or less, at her feet, with degrees of devotion, 
strongest in Julian and weakest in Geoffrey. It was 
not easy to detach her violently from this environ- 
ment; more than one person would be hurt by the 
accomplishment of this purpose. Only that she was, 
after all, his own child; he had a right to her; he 
wanted her ; these last lonely months had taught him 
how much. The truth was that he had been offered 
and had accepted an appointment in Malta ; the pay 
was good, and he could offer her a home which would 
not compare too ill with the one she had enjoyed all 
these years. She was rather young to leave school, 
but he intended to continue her education by engag- 
ing a governess, and she would have facilities for 
studying languages, Italian and French, with native 
teachers. 

He didn’t detach her all at once. A few days at 
first, then a few weeks. The old affection between 
them was as re^dy as ever to spring into new life. 
Eunice was of an age now to be a companion to him ; 
the fact that he needed her was extremely pleasant 
and flattering. She was the one to suffer least; the 
prospect of going to Malta with him attracted her 
by its novelty. But she was careful not to disclose 
her pleasure too openly to Julian. The boy was 


EUNICE 


263 

obviously very unhappy, and too proud to speak of 
it. Her little Sittings backward and forward, from 
her father to them and vice versa, filled him with an 
odd unrest. But he and Geoffrey had gone back to 
school before the divorce-suit came on. It caused 
rather more sensation than such cases are apt to do 
where the parties concerned are not very prominently 
before the public, and the attempt that Mrs. Dam- 
pier had made to kidnap her daughter lent it a 
peculiar, lurid interest. It lasted two days and 
Major Dampier left the court a free man, having 
obtained the custody of his only child. They left 
for Malta together the following week. 

It has often been remarked that some people’s 
lives continue in a regular, uninterrupted, and un- 
broken routine of small daily events for a number of 
years without any change coming to alter it, but that 
when once that routine is broken by some violent, 
untoward affair the change is almost always the 
precursor of others. 

When Julian was a man he used to look back upon 
their life in Brighton up till the time of Eunice’s 
departure for Malta as a completed chapter, arbi- 
trarily defined. It comprised all his so well-remem- 
bered childhood as well as his school-days. All the 
distinctive changes that had come to them took place 
earlier — the death of Baby Sister, the sojourn in 
Rome, the return to Brighton, the arrival of Eunice 
in their midst. If it did not hold days of great 
brilliance, this period between her first arrival and 
her ultimate departure with her father it always 
appeared to him as a sunlit interval, not eventless 
but varied with events that were natural, harmon- 
ious, forming part of a well-ordered whole. He 
had been aware through it all of great happiness in 
those surroundings that were peopled for him by the 
figures of his parents, of Geoffrey and afterward of 


EUNICE 


264 

Eunice, in a very satisfying way. He had not 
desired change; he had even disliked and dreaded 
the necessary one of going to school, which to Geof- 
frey had appeared simply as a joyous adventure. 
Geoffrey was stimulated by school life; he liked 
success ; he was ambitious ; already one could see that 
he would be a man of strong purpose, knowing 
exactly what he wanted and obtaining it by hard per- 
sonal endeavor. He had pushed his way up through 
the school, leaving Julian far behind and wondering 
how he did it. They had had precisely the same 
training, the same advantages, and Julian was mor- 
bidly conscious at times that he had not profited by 
these things as much as he ought to have done. But 
school was only an interval, not a radical, destroying 
change ; they returned home for the holidays to find 
their father and mother and Eunice still enjoying 
the old remembered conservative life. He had felt 
and hoped that things would continue forever in this 
way. After that first brief unsuccessful time Eunice 
had spent with her parents in London as a little girl, 
he had been lulled into a kind of security concerning 
her. And now those false hopes of his had been 
destroyed. Major Dampier had taken her away, 
not unmindful, it is true, of the pain he was inflicting 
upon them, but keenly resolved to possess his own 
child, giving, alas, no indication that the present 
arrangement would not prove permanent. And she 
was glad to go, eager for the new adventure, the 
fresh, untried life. Julian never saw her actual final 
departure, but his mother told him she had shed but 
few tears. She was flushed and full of excite- 
ment. . . He used to picture her, knowing well just 
how she must have looked. 

He was back at school when the news reached 
him. Geoffrey, immersed in his brilliant climbing 
toward the top of the Sixth, took little notice of the 


EUNICE 


265 

affair. Julian struggled on with his dogged work 
that produced so little in the way of results. He 
was not idle, but he was often preoccupied and with- 
out concentration. It led to his being rather fre- 
quently punished, kept in, given extra tasks. But 
he did not suffer under this discipline, for he felt that 
nothing that was done to himself could ever hurt 
him. The things that hurt came from outside, brutal, 
wounding things such as being separated from the 
people you cared for. 

It was exactly as if Eunice had been a sister and 
that she had died. 

But Eunice’s departure was, alas, only the begin- 
ning of greater changes that seemed to close the 
door abruptly and definitely upon their boyhood, and 
to destroy with violence that quiet, ordered life at 
Brighton. It was in the winter following Eunice’s 
departure that Mr. Parmeter caught a chill. No 
one thought very much about it at first ; he remained 
in bed a few days and then got up and seemed very 
weak and disinclined to work. Then graver symp- 
toms manifested themselves. It was recalled that 
he had a delicate boyhood, but, though never a very 
robust man, his health had always seemed good and 
his constitution sound. He went out imprudently in 
a cold east wind; a sharp attack of pain followed; 
there was even talk of an operation, which did not, 
however, materialize. He made a partial recovery. 
Weeks of dragging indecision followed. By the 
time the two boys came home at Easter he was a 
semi-invalid ; they noticed a great change in him. A 
shadow seemed to hang over the house, emphasizing 
the blank still caused by Eunice’s departure. They 
didn’t hear much from Eunice, but when she did 
write, her letters were overflowing with happiness; 
she was delighted with her new life. She had a far 
warmer affection for her father than she had ever had 


266 


EUNICE 


for them, Julian reflected. He had often thought 
her cold and unresponsive, but for Major — now 
Colonel — Dampier she had evidently developed a 
kind of worshiping love. It was good to know that 
she was so happy, and sometimes Julian could feel 
glad that she had escaped the mournfulness that had 
come upon their home with this chronic illness. He 
himself found it diflicult to shake off the feeling of 
intense melancholy that prevailed ; it surrounded him 
wherever he went. Geoffrey, less susceptible, spent 
as little time indoors as possible. He was always 
out boating and golfing, leading a vigorous, active 
life and getting daily more bronzed and hardy. He 
was very tall now; he had shot up wonderfully this 
last term, and for the first time was taller than 
Julian. He was broad-shouldered and had an air 
of great physical strength, and he was very hand- 
some, with his thick fair hair and keen blue eyes. 
People called him “the good-looking Parmeter boy,” 
to distinguish him from Julian. Julian envied him 
that power of emerging from an atmosphere of 
devastating anxiety, and of being able to pursue his 
normal life of active wholesome amusement and 
sport. His own inability to accomplish it made him 
the more admire Geoffrey’s powers of doing so. 

But it was not until the following August that still 
graver symptoms set in which changed anxiety to 
definite alarm. There were consultations; special- 
ists were called in. It was wonderful, Julian 
thought, to see his mother’s determined high courage 
in the face of such threatened disaster. Julian was 
a slim, delicate, dreamy-looking lad, looking more 
than his seventeen and a half years. More than 
ever he envied Geoffrey, who, although really con- 
cerned about his father, was still able to pursue his 
usual normal life of games and even work, for he 
was soon to try for Sandhurst. On the very day for 


EUNICE 


267 


which an important consultation had been fixed he 
was to play in a cricket-match. He had been proud 
to be chosen; his mind was full of it; he had never 
been asked to play in such an important match be- 
fore. Julian, hardly realizing this, ventured to say: 

“I suppose you couldn’t get out of it, Geoff?” 

“I shan’t even try,” said Geoffrey carelessly. “I 
couldn’t do any good by moping here and making 
myself and every one else more miserable than we 
are already.” He regarded Julian with something 
of the old, uncomprehending curiosity. “That 
wouldn’t help father a little bit, you know!” 

“No,” said Julian almost humbly. 

He saw that it was quite possible and even right 
for Geoffrey to go, just as it would have been im- 
possible, even wrong, for himself. Egoism and 
unselfishness had nothing to do with it. It was only 
a question of what you were capable of, what you 
could bear. And long ago he had discovered that 
things didn’t hurt Geoffrey in the same way and with 
that keen edge with which he himself could be 
wounded. Geoffrey would pass through life in a 
state of easy forgetfulness and unconcern. If he 
were hurt he would shrug his shoulders, pass on to 
the next absorbing interest, and forget his wound. 
He would treat all the pain and torture and devastat- 
ing anxiety of life in the same careless way in which 
he would meet bodily hurt, wounds of the flesh. 

“I wish I were more like Geoff,” thought Julian. 
“I wish I could have gone to look on at the match.” 

For, as Geoffrey had pointed out, he could do no 
one any good by moping indoors. The atmosphere 
of the house was one of tragic, almost breathless 
suspense. His mother, absorbed in the task of tend- 
ing his father, was invisible to him. He sat there 
in the quiet school-room waiting, as it seemed, hour 
after hour. The tension of a house where there is 


268 


EUNICE 


dangerous illness had descended upon him. All his 
nerves were taut. He had a book open before him, 
but he could not read. Some confusion came into 
his mind presently, for as he sat there he became 
drowsy, and in his thoughts the cricket-match and his 
father’s illness became inextricably mixed. Down- 
stairs the doctors were consulting together about his 
father’s chance of life, and the London specialist 
became the umpire, wearing, however, a black coat 
instead of the traditional long white one. And they 
were waiting for his decision, his verdict. . . 
“How’s that, umpire — in or out?” The familiar 
words echoed in his ear, just as if they had been 
spoken by an eager, excited, school-boy voice with 
just that note of anxiety he had heard so often. 
One waited so breathlessly for the verdict which no 
one would dare to gainsay. Julian seemed to hear 
a loud voice cry, It roused him roughly 

from his lethargy, and he was unable to believe that 
it had not really been uttered. He did not think 
that brief monosyllable could have held such awful 
meaning and power, so as to assume the very voice 
of doom. Echoes caught up the sound and repeated 
it with thin, elfin, mocking reiteration. “Out. . 
out. . ” repeated Julian, still stupid and confused 
and not quite sure whether he were awake or asleep. 

A sudden noise aroused him ; he looked up, rubbing 
his eyes. He must have fallen asleep, he thought, 
with his arms on the table, his head bowed upon his 
hands. And the noise that had aroused him was 
the opening of the door. He was confused, like a 
person who has just awakened from the effects of an 
anaesthetic and whose brain is still clouded. His 
mother was standing in front of him — not the man 
in the long white coat whom he had almost expected 
to see. 

“Was it in or out?” he said in a dazed way. 


EUNICE 


269 


“In or out?” Mrs. Parmeter repeated. 

Her face was very white ; she looked with an ex- 
pression almost of terror at Julian. 

He suddenly laughed in a mirthless way, like one 
who laughs in his sleep at some ghastly, meaningless 
jest. 

“I thought you were the umpire,” he said. “I’ve 
got mixed, I think. I must have been asleep.” 

“I woke you,” she said. “I had no idea you were 
asleep. Why didn’t you go with Geoff?” 

“I wanted to hear what the specialists said,” 
answered Julian. “And then I must have fallen 
asleep and dreamed of the cricket-match. And the 
doctor became the umpire.” 

Mrs. Parmeter went to the window and looked 
at the garish summer scene outside, the strong glare 
that blazed on the pavements, the passing groups of 
amorous cockneys, the crowds moving up and down, 
the blue line of the sea very delicately colored. 

“Norman is very ill,” she said quietly, “more ill 
than we thought. They do not think there is actual 
disease — that is a comfort and gives one hope. It 
is his weakness that alarms us. We shall have to 
go abroad this autumn to a warm climate.” 

It was the way she spoke that made Julian’s heart 
sink like a stone. So the umpire had said 
after all. 

“Go — go away from here?” he said. 

It seemed impossible — incredible — surely he was 
still suffering from that clouded confusion. 

“Yes, dear,” she said. “I shall have to make 
plans. You will have gone back to school by the 
time we have to start, but I must think about the 
Christmas holidays.” 

Julian felt as if the solid ground were slipping 
from beneath his feet. He longed for her to tell 
him more, but all the time he knew there was no need 


270 


EUNICE 


for her to do so. He really knew all that she knew. 
The umpire had said *^Out** and his father was 
going to die. Going abroad would only prolong his 
life. He thought of Keats, sent abroad with Severn 
when his life was hanging on a thread, dying in 
Rome a few months later with an unopened letter 
from Fanny Brawne by his side. He had always 
thought of Keats’s life as a deep, haunting tragedy. 
Not the least tragic part of it lay in the fact that so 
soon after his death people had come to realize that 
the consumptive boy of twenty-four had won his 
place among the Immortals. One wasn’t allowed 
to have and to realize earthly glory; perhaps it was 
harmful to the soul. . . He remembered his father’s 
words uttered half-playfully, “My dear boy. I’m not 
quite a classic yet! No one has ever heard of me I” 

Again he roused himself. For his father really 
wasn’t at all like Keats, he had nothing the matter 
with his lungs. He was a much older man ; he had 
had a very happy life ; he had loved and been loved ; 
things had gone smoothly with him. And the 
doctors had said they did not think there was actual 
disease of the grave, internal kind that had been 
feared. 

“Where shall you go?” he said at last. 

“Probably to the south of France. He doesn’t 
care to go as far as Italy. But we haven’t decided 
anything as yet.” 

He looked up. “I must write to Eunice,” he said. 
“Eunice will be very sorry.” 

He was almost thankful that she wasn’t there to 
taste the bitterness of this hour. She seemed sud- 
denly very far away, as if she had no more part or 
lot with them. Perhaps it was best that she had 
gone before this great trouble came upon them. 
There was a reason for everything. 

“You can tell Geoffrey when he comes in,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter. “Don’t make him too unhappy. 


EUNICE 


271 


If we take things in time Norman may get quite 
strong again. He has always had a good constitu- 
tion.” 

“Yes,” said Julian. 

“And now I must go back to him.” She stooped 
suddenly and kissed him on the forehead, pushing 
his heavy dark hair with her hand. “I wanted you 
to know, Julian.” 

Something of its bright courage had gone out of 
her voice. She went quickly away as if she did not 
want him to make any reply. He continued to sit 
there, pondering over her words. 

The summer dusk was beginning to fall when 
Geoffrey came in, heated and flushed with triumph. 
It had been a simply topping day. They had had a 
“top-hole” lunch. And he had carried his bat for 
a hundred and ten. They had won — the other side 
hadn’t had a look-in. He had taken four wickets 
himself for thirty runs. . Geoffrey looked splendid 
in his white flannels and brilliant school “blazer.” 
His open throat was all burned brown by the sun. 
He sat down near his brother, lit a cigarette, and 
talked eagerly. 

To see him just now, so careless and unconscious 
in his egoism, stabbed Julian. He remembered his 
mother’s words, asking him to tell Geoffrey, but not 
to make him too unhappy. How careful she was of 
Geoffrey, always trying to screen him. Was it be- 
cause she knew that Julian with his smaller physical 
strength had yet no need that the wind should be 
tempered for him? 

“Well, did the doctor come? What did he say?” 
said Geoffrey at last. He spoke as if it were an 
afterthought, yet his very way of saying it assured 
Julian that this thought and no other had been in his 
mind all the time. 

“He said father must go abroad.” 

“Abroad? How simply ripping! I hope it’ll 


272 


EUNICE 


be to one of those places in Switzerland where we 
can skate. Will they be there at Christmas ? It’ll 
be awful fun to go abroad.” 

“Mother didn’t say we were to go. She said she 
would have to make plans for the Christmas holi- 
days. You see, she was rather worried, for he’s 
very ill, though there’s no disease. But I don’t 
think they will go to Switzerland — it’s more likely 
to be the south of France.” 

“Oh, well — that won’t be half bad. We shall get 
lots of lawn-tennis and golf,” said Geoffrey. 

“There’s no reason why he shouldn’t get well,” 
said Julian. 

“Of course he’ll get fit again,” said Geoffrey 
cheerfully. “Well, I must go and have a bath.” 

Presently Julian went up to his room. As he 
passed the door he could hear Geoffrey splashing 
and singing in his bath and something in the cheerful, 
normal sound made him shiver. Geoffrey always 
sang in his bath, yet this evening the sound held a 
jarring note. He shut his own door so that he 
might not hear it. There was something disordered 
and menacing in this change, as if a blow had been 
struck at the very heart of their lives. It seemed to 
him more than ever a providential arrangement that 
Eunice had gone away. She might have had to go 
in any case. Now she would be able to look back 
upon her life with them as an uniformly happy time, 
unchequered by ugly changes. 

Outside, the rich summer dusk was full of har- 
monious purple tones that colored sky and sea, and 
even endowed the passing crowds on the Front with 
a mysterious quality. Somewhere in the distance a 
band was playing, and the sound filtered through 
with an almost intolerable melancholy. It was very 
still to-night; one could hear the crisp breaking of 
the waves on the beach, a rhythmical accompaniment 


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of sound. There was no wind stirring and it was 
unusually warm. 

The moving mystery of the sea, never quite silent 
even when very calm, always stimulated in Julian 
that condition of reverie which grew upon him in 
time of calamity. He must be quite calm — as calm 
as the sea and the grave night sky — before he dared 
to pray. Then prayer would come and bring that 
desire to co-operate, against which the flesh so often 
rebelled, trying to hold the spirit back with chains 
and imprisoning its fine impulse of generosity. So 
far he had had only a childish vision of death; he 
had never seen it except once, when he had stolen up 
at night to look at Baby Sister in her narrow crib. 
But it was not only that death threatened his father; 
he felt that his own life was being convulsed by 
change, it had lost all sense of security, of stability. 
This was the hour of trial, when only spiritual things 
could help, when one could only hold out pitiful, 
groping, human hands to the Unseen and ask for 
courage and resignation. 

He longed and yet dreaded to see his father again 
under these new conditions. It was not quite curi- 
osity, for his love for him cried out to be consoled 
by some outward sign of well-being, of physical im- 
provement. But he had not been allowed to go into 
his room for three days. His father was too weak 
to talk; he must keep very quiet; to see his sons 
might upset and excite him. 

He and Geoffrey dined alone rather miserably. 
Mrs. Parmeter took her meals as opportunity 
offered. After dinner Julian was going back to his 
own room when Geoffrey called to him : 

“Look here — I simply can’t stand being alone. 
Come and play rubicon bezique.’’ 

Julian came back obediently and they entered the 
drawing-room, and Geoffrey dragged out the old 
card-table with its faded green top and some packs 


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of well-used cards. He stood in front of his brother 
with flushed cheeks and shining, nervous eyes. But 
he did not allude to their father; it was evident that 
he was refusing to allow his mind to dwell upon any- 
thing so painful. He was resolutely directing his 
thoughts to another channel and insisting upon 
Julian’s doing the same. But it was a mere bright 
pretence, the melancholy fact hovered like a shadowy 
bird at the back of all they said and thought. At 
such moments Julian would feel the terrible strength 
of Geoffrey’s will, as of something hard and irresis- 
tible, imposing itself upon him. Under its influence 
he concentrated his mind wholly upon the cards and 
played as well as he could. In fact, he had a 
nervous dread of making a mistake that should re- 
veal to Geoffrey that his thoughts were elsewhere 
employed. The game was a brilliant and hotly- 
contested one. Even the swift mental arithmetic it 
involved was good for Julian, obliging him to con- 
centrate and control his thoughts. But though his 
intellect approved, his heart rebelled against the cold 
wisdom of Geoffrey. He even thought him a little 
cruel to capture and dominate him in this way. For 
his heart was full of an overpowering emotion of 
love and anxiety and pain, so that the temporary 
banishment of these feelings hurt him as with some 
obscure sense of disloyalty. 

It was as if they had no care in the world except 
the losing or winning of this trivial game of cards. 

CHAPTER XXIX 

J ULIAN often felt in the few weeks that were left 
of their holidays that Geoffrey had usurped the 
place of the elder son and had assumed a certain 
ascendancy even over him. His presence made 


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itself felt in the house; several times he took upon 
himself to arrange something that required organiza- 
tion. Julian realized that Geoffrey was doing this 
on purpose, and he surrendered and let himself be 
dominated, aware that it was not done out of pride 
or unkindness, but simply with a wish to draw him 
away from a too morbid contemplation of the 
threatened calamity. It was as if something super- 
latively sane and wholesome in Geoffrey’s mind 
wished to set even their father’s illness upon a 
normal plane. And Geoffrey himself was a little 
changed. He rose every day and went to Mass with 
Julian. He was devout and recollected, but when 
he left the church his bright cheerfulness was unim- 
paired. They had their breakfast together directly 
they went in, and later they went down to the sea to 
bathe. Outwardly they seemed very close friends, 
for they were more together than was their usual 
custom, but Julian felt that the gulf between them 
had never been so wide. It was perhaps because 
Geoffrey hardly ever spoke of his father’s illness or 
of their future, which seemed so obscure. But 
Julian knew that if he were to dub him careless and 
indifferent he would be wholly unjust. It was be- 
cause he did care so much that he turned his head 
away as if from the contemplation of something that 
affected him too terribly to be borne. Julian knew 
that he cared because he prayed. He could not help 
watching him sometimes at Mass, his fair face look- 
ing very earnest and sincere. In spite of himself Julian 
drew nearer to Geoffrey. He realized how immen- 
sely he admired him for his hard, sharp qualities, 
that were more like those of an experienced man 
upon whom others relied in moments of difficulty. 
It was rather like the process of studying a complete 
stranger and discovering the existence of shining, 
wonderful qualities of head and heart. He had 


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never seen Geoffrey as it were so close before, and 
he discerned in him a curious carefulness of conduct. 
He was perfectly simple, but he was seldom now 
impatient or violent; he was thoughtful to others and 
very kind. But always he seemed to be guarding 
his own heart from pain. 

Julian had a letter from Eunice. She was evi- 
dently grieved and distressed at the news of Mr. 
Parmeter’s illness; she sent him loving messages. 
But the letter made Julian feel as if she had traveled 
very far away from them. Their interests were not 
her interests any more; she had her own father to 
love, to think of; it was clear that their intimacy was 
daily growing greater. “I know what I should feel 
like if it were my own darling papa,” she wrote. 
She had been gone nearly a year, and to Julian the 
house seemed still to be haunted by the ghost of that 
bright, lovely young presence. 

* * ^ 

It was in September, before the holidays were 
quite ended, that Mr. Parmeter’s departure from 
home took place. Geoffrey helped his mother in all 
the arrangements for the journey; like Julian, she 
submitted to this new young force that was asserting 
itself as if impelled by circumstances. The boys 
would be left alone for the last four days of the 
holidays. Mrs. Parmeter had indeed hoped to re- 
main till they had gone, but the weather had already 
become chilly and wet and it was considered more 
prudent to make an earlier start for a more sunny 
place. 

When Mr. Parmeter was helped out to the motor- 
ambulance that was to convey him to Newhaven it 
was noticed that he was very feeble, and had need 
of a great deal of help to accomplish those few steps. 
Geoffrey supported him on one side; he pushed the 


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277 


servant who had been deputed to assist him aside 
and assumed the task himself. The boys realized 
for the first time how altered their father was. 
They had only seen him lying in bed or on the sofa, 
and now that he stood up he looked almost like an 
old man with stooping shoulders and grey hair. 
He was thin to emaciation and his eyes were sunken 
and dull. But his smile had still something of its 
old ironic quality as he greeted his sons, and there 
was a look of pride in his face as he glanced up at 
Geoffrey, his tall, handsome boy with the yellow hair 
of a Viking, the sea-blue eyes. 

“It’s rotten you’re having to go away like this, 
father,” said Geoffrey, smiling bravely. 

Mr. Parmeter said gently, but in a voice that was 
audible to his wife and to both his sons : 

“We must be ready to co-operate with the divine 
will, Geoff. It is wonderful how easy it makes 
everything.” 

Geoffrey turned his head away abruptly; Julian 
did not dare look at him. They both perhaps felt 
that there would be no difficulty in remembering 
those words, which held the secret of all courage, all 
endurance, all resignation. 

When Geoffrey helped his father to get into the 
ambulance his face was very grave and stern with 
the effort of self-control. 

Julian believed after that episode that Geoffrey’s 
suffering was greater than his own because it was 
more highly centralized. It was not attenuated by 
any previous grief, as his own sorrow always 
seemed, being, as he felt, the prolongation of the 
anguish he had felt at Eunice’s departure. He 
thought now that there was something fierce in that 
strongly-controlled grief of Geoffrey’s. 

As he returned to the house, Julian felt more than 
ever that all the old, stable things were slipping from 


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278 

him. Eunice was gone and there was no doubt that 
the bonds of affection established through those long 
years of her residence with them were rapidly slack- 
ening. His father was mortally ill, and his mother 
had taken him abroad. It was terrible to be in that 
great echoing house without his mother. Although 
he had seen her so little these last few weeks he had 
never been without her morning and evening em- 
brace to reassure him of her love. He knew that in 
the hours that followed her departure he should 
have given way to an almost despairing grief if it 
had not been for Geoffrey. How odd to look to 
Geoffrey for support. Yet one could not deny it, he 
was a rock. And it was far easier to accept his help 
now that one knew he was suffering under that hard, 
bright surface. He had so nearly broken down ; that 
glimpse of his averted profile had shown a chalk- 
white cheek; it was only by dint of an iron self-con- 
trol that he had been able to maintain his calm com- 
posure. 

Julian wrote down those parting words of his 
father’s in his prayer-book: ^^IVe must be ready to 
co-operate with the divine vnlL It is wonderful how 
easy it makes everything ...” 

Mr. Parmeter never rallied from the fatigue of 
his journey. Although Mentone had been fixed upon 
as the venue of his sojourn, it was considered advis- 
able by the nurses who accompanied them, that they 
should stop at Marseilles and not go any farther 
that day. ^ He was already prostrate with exhaustion. 
He was little accustomed to traveling; the modern 
habit of restlessly scouring Europe had never ap- 
pealed to him, and the physical exhaustion — common 
to many nervous, highly-strung persons — consequent 
upon a long night journey had made a wreck of him 
before he reached his destination. He went to bed 


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279 


upon arriving at the hotel, and to his wife especially 
the increased weakness was very alarming. 

It soon became perfectly clear to them all that 
Mr. Parmeter would never again leave Marseilles. 
They had been there two or three weeks when he 
requested that his sons might be sent for. He 
wanted them, especially he wanted to see Geoffrey. 
Mrs. Parmeter telegraphed, asking that they might 
be allowed to start immediately. They arrived two 
days later and she met them at the station. Their 
eager, anxious faces showed her how fully they 
realized the situation. On the way to the hotel she 
told them that their father was very happy and 
peaceful; he was longing to see them. There was 
no need for her to say more. They knew that he 
was going to die. Her calm was wonderful, Julian 
thought. She was, as usual, full of solicitude for 
their comfort; on arriving at the hotel she insisted 
upon their having something to eat before they were 
admitted to the sick-room. She would have made 
them rest a little, but this they both declined. 

“We slept in the train,” Geoffrey explained. “I 
don’t want to rest, but I’ll go and have a bath.” 

They had some hot coffee, some fresh rolls and 
butter. The fragrance of the food tempted them; 
they had not eaten much on their journey. Geoffrey 
was hungry and he made Julian eat. When he had 
gone off to have a bath, Julian found himself alone 
with his mother. 

“Geoff’s been splendid,” he said. He wondered 
if she had yet realized the active part Geoffrey was 
playing now, his initiative and thoughtfulness. 

“Yes, yes. I’m sure he has,” she said. 

“He seemed to know exactly what to do. I — just 
sat in the train and did what he said,” said Julian. 

“Yes — he’s very clever, very practical.” 

“He does care, you know,” said Julian. He was 


28 o 


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terribly afraid that his mother had failed to discern 
how greatly Geoffrey cared. 

“But of course,” she agreed quickly. 

“When may I see father?” 

“Very soon. He’s always brighter in the morn- 
ing.” 

“But he’s worse — much worse?” said Julian, put- 
ting his hand on hers. 

“Yes, much worse.” Her fingers clasped Julian’s 
with nervous strength. “God is going to take him 
away from us. I want you — and Geoffrey, too — to 
look at it like that.” 

“To co-operate,” Julian was saying dreamily, 
“just as he told Geoffrey.” 

“Yes, it’s the only way. Otherwise things would 
be — unbearable. God has been so kind, so merci- 
ful to us — all these years. We have tried to serve 
Him in our happiness. Now he asks us to serve 
Him in our sorrow. We mustn’t be less ready — less 
faithful — less willing. Some parents wouldn’t have 
perhaps let their sons come, so as to save them pain. 
But you and Geoffrey — yes, I could count on you to 
be brave, to help me.” 

“I’m so glad you let us come,” said Julian, simply. 
It was wonderful how brave her words made him 
feel, giving him a glow of calm courage, as if he 
were going into battle for some splendid cause for 
which it would be good to die. “Geoffrey helps me 
to be brave,” he added, “even though he doesn’t like 
to talk about it.” 

He wanted loyally to let her know that Geoffrey 
had helped him. Sometimes he thought she still be- 
lieved that he led and that Geoffrey followed, just 
as they used to do. He wanted her to realize the 
change that had come in their mutual relations, and 
that their positions were now reversed. He had 
lost his first mean little envy of his brother, and was 


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281 


prepared to submit to him. He wished, too, that he 
could always see a clear bright path in front of him, 
lit by the lamps of faith and hope and high courage, 
such a path as Geoffrey saw and determinedly fol- 
lowed. To himself there seemed always so many 
byways, floating in such murky mists of indecision 
and faltering and hesitation. He even felt that 
Geoffrey had taught him to pray better, as if with a 
more pure and single intention, a greater simplicity. 
He had always been groping, feeling his way, beset 
by a thousand difficulties, yet stubbornly clinging to 
the anchor of faith, while Geoffrey moved lightly 
and confidently forward. 

“Geoffrey has developed very much lately,” said 
Mrs. Parmeter. “I have noticed it too. He’s be- 
ginning to take the lead.” 

“Yes,” Julian agreed. “I haven’t always under- 
stood him, but now I see how splendid he is. He 
makes me want to be more like him.” 

It cost him a little effort to say it, but he wanted 
to be generous toward his brother, as if to make up 
for his old want of sympathy, his tendency to con- 
sider him unfeeling and selfish. 

“Dear Julian,” said Mrs. Parmeter. As usual, 
she had penetrated his thoughts — such a perplexing 
maze ! — had become aware of the little struggle that 
had cost Julian a certain amount of painful effort, 
and of the small victory he had won over himself. 

They went in one by one to see their father. 
Julian first, because he was the elder. He went tim- 
idly and nervously toward the sick man. Even in 
these few weeks the change that had come over him 
was alarmingly apparent. One felt now that, hu- 
manly speaking, there was no hope of recovery. 
And one felt — oh, how strongly — that whatever 
struggle there had been against the premature sen- 
tence of death, whatever mutiny of the rebellious 


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flesh against the divine mandate, all these were splen- 
didly, triumphantly, at an end. Death for Nor- 
man Parmeter, with his secret passionate religious 
fervor, meant only a glorious going forward. What- 
ever pain of purification purgatory^^might impose 
would mean but another step toward the goal for 
which he had always striven. 

When he saw Julian his first question was for 
Eunice. Had there been news of her? Julian was 
able to say that he had had a letter. “I wish she 
could have been here now,” said Norman, “I should 
like to have seen her again. She is a dear child.” 
His words found a wistful echo in Julian’s heart. 

It was as if they had all agreed to be calm and 
happy during the weeks that followed. Those days 
were filled with a curious, beautiful serenity of sad- 
ness that made them never too painful to be re- 
called. They were all very united, and the hours 
they spent with Norman were too peaceful to be 
very sorrowful. He already did not seem to belong 
quite to this world. The very emaciation of his body 
made him spiritual in aspect, as if by some subtle 
conquering of the flesh. He was etherealized, and it 
seemed too as if the body were already weaned of 
every earthly desire. Although he suffered greatly, 
more from acute discomfort than from actual pain, 
he very patiently accepted all the misery of it. He 
was too weak to speak much. 

Every morning a priest came to say Mass in his 
room. It was Geoffrey who prepared everything 
and then served the Mass. Julian watched him al- 
most enviously. All his actions were so careful, so 
considered, and in his movements there seemed a 
perfect commingling of reverence and grace. He 
recited Latin with a clear liquid flow of sound; he 
knew the responses and prayers by heart. Even 
here, in the things that actually concerned religion. 


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283 


he had the mastery of Julian, who had always been 
the more deeply religious of the two. Mr. Par- 
meter’s eyes would watch his son with a curious 
look of pride in his sunken eyes. Further away he 
could see, when Mass was over, his wife and Julian 
kneeling side by side, their dark heads very close 
together. His happiness at such moments was per- 
fect. Ivy would not be left alone and unprotected 
with these two strong young sons beside her. They 
would always be good sons; he felt that more than 
ever in those days at Marseilles. 

He had taught his wife to look upon the coming 
separation as he looked upon it, much in the same 
way as afterward she had told Julian. He shrank 
from any clamorous manifestations of grief. They 
had had so many happy and undisturbed years. The 
only sharp trial that had been sent to them was the 
death of Baby Sister in infancy. And as if to com- 
pensate for that loss they had had for years the joy 
of Eunice’s presence in their home. How much he 
had missed Eunice he could never tell ; but now, like 
Julian, he was able to see that her departure, just 
before the changes had come upon them, was per- 
haps for the best. Yes, God had been superabund- 
antly merciful to them, had overwhelmed them with 
the fruits of His love, with benefits beyond all their 
poor desert. 

The end came very quietly and rather suddenly 
one evening, just when the autumn sunset was fading 
from gold to dusky purple, and the sea was pale as 
a pearl seen across a pallid veil. The doctor had 
just gone away; the priest was already there, for all 
knew that death was coming very near. Mr. Par- 
meter repeated twice the Name of his beloved 
Master, whom he had so faithfully served. His 
lips moved once or twice as if in response to the 
prayers for the dying which the priest was uttering 


EUNICE 


284 

aloud, but no sound was audible. He had received 
the Last Sacraments that morning and later in the 
day the Viaticum. Thus, fortified by all the rites of 
Holy Church, the soul of Norman Parmeter went 
forth upon its last journey. 


CHAPTER XXX 

I T was Geoffrey who did everything, relieving his 
mother, who was physically very tired and ex- 
hausted, of all painful details and occupying himself 
first with the arrangements for the funeral and then 
for their journey. His bright composure never failed 
him, and his solicitude for his mother was even 
greater than Julian’s. He had the not too common 
power of putting himself quite outside the picture, 
as if his own personality had no connection with 
contemporary events. Yet all the time Julian felt 
that he must be undergoing a great strain, in fitting 
his youthful strength to a man’s hard tasks. When 
they were all in the train on their way home Geoffrey 
slept very soundly, as if he were utterly fatigued. 
Julian, who was lying awake, and feeling sick and 
miserable, cried quietly, ashamed of the tears he 
could no longer control. The desolation of it all 
seemed to take him by the throat. He was not able 
to be calm and resigned any more, and yet he felt 
that his very grief was an act of rebellion against the 
divine will. It was at variance, too, with all that his 
parents had demanded of him. He wanted to pray, 
but he could not pray. Ever since the funeral he 
had not been able to pray. His heart and his mind 
were alike a blank. He looked down at his mother 
lying there on the third couch of their narrow com- 


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285 

partment and he saw that she was awake. Her face 
looked very pale in the greenish light diffused by the 
shaded lamp that hung above their heads, and the 
shadows upon it were deep and marked. Her white 
hands were uncovered and he saw that they held a 
rosary and that her lips were moving in prayer. 
Geoffrey sleeping — he could hear his regular breath- 
ing; his mother praying; and he himself agonizing, 
shedding passionate, mutinous tears. He felt ill 
with grief and loss, and physically he was tired and 
weak. Why couldn’t he be strong — continually 
strong — like Geoffrey? He always broke down 
under i. long strain, while his brother seemed to gain 
fresh strength. Was it only because he was physi- 
cially less robust? The sound of Geoffrey’s calm, 
deep, rhythmical breathing calmed his nerves a little. 
He could picture him on awakening the next morn- 
ing, refreshed by all these hours of sound sleep, 
ready to take up the burden of another day, eager 
and helpful, while he himself would be only a 
nervous wreck, his white face showing perhaps traces 
of these ignoble tears. 

They spent a few days in Paris, because Mrs. Parr 
meter was really very tired and seemed disinclined 
to continue her journey at once. While they were 
there Geoffrey insisted upon Julian’s accompanying 
him to see picture-galleries and churches and 
museums. In the afternoon they drove in the Bois 
with their mother. The November days were 
warm, as if summer were loath to leave the world 
that year. Julian felt that if he had been alone with 
his mother things would have been different; they 
would have been quiet and a little sad, like all people 
who have sustained a recent loss. This bright 
young presence forbade any manifestation of sad- 
ness. And yet Geoffrey had been his father’s 
favorite son; Norman had always been proud of his 


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manly, vigorous character. That was the strange 
part of it. Geoffrey had really lost more than 
Julian. 

About a week later they started for England. 
The wind was blowing fiercely when they reached 
Boulogne. Mrs. Parmeter disliked the sea, espe- 
cially in its rough moods, and she disappeared at 
once into a small deck cabin and lay down on one of 
the couches. Geoffrey and Julian remained outside 
watching the passengers who were coming on board 
in hurrying groups. Suddenly they saw two people 
coming toward them, an elderly woman and a tall 
young girl whose dark hair was all roughened and 
disheveled by the wind. Julian uttered a little ex- 
clamation, which he tried the next moment to check, 
but Geoffrey’s ears were too quick. “Why, what’s 
up, Ju?” he said. 

“It — it is Eunice,” said Julian, stumbling over his 
words. Then he ran forward, forgetting his shy- 
ness, forgetting indeed everything except that she 
was there. He came up to her with shining eyes. 

“Why, it’s Julian I” she cried and held out her 
hand. “Is Geoffrey here too?” 

At the mention of his brother’s name Julian felt 
suddenly chilled. “Yes, he’s over there,” he said 
indicating that great, well-set-up, manly figure with 
the uncovered yellow hair tossed by the breeze. 

Eunice turned and made some explanation in a 
low tone to her companion, then she said to Julian : 

“Let’s go and talk to him. And your mother?” 

“She’s lying down,” said Julian briefly. He 
wanted dreadfully to tell Eunice about his father’s 
death, but he felt that the moment had not come. 
He moved down the deck swiftly to keep up with 
her. She still had the same lithe, quick movements, 
delicately graceful. The wind lifted her hair in 
thick long strands. She had grown very much and 


EUNICE 287 

was nearly as tall as Julian himself. She ran up to 
Geoffrey and held out her hand. 

“Hullo, Eunice !’’ he said with a smile, “what luck 
to meet you I Are you going to stop in England 
long?’’ 

“No — only about two months.” 

“You must come down to Brighton to see us.” 

“I should love to, but Miss Brent is such a cross 
old thing — she never wants me to do anything. 
She’s my governess and companion and I don’t like 
her.” She wore her old droll expression as she said 
the words. “Where have you all come from?” 

“We’ve been at Marseilles and then in Paris.” 
His face grew suddenly grave. “My father died 
there ten days ago. You heard, I suppose, that he 
was very ill?” 

The tears rushed to Julian’s eyes; he turned his 
head abruptly away. Yet he was thankful Geoffrey 
had told her; he felt then that it would have been an 
impossibility for him to speak of it. Suddenly he 
was aware that a hand was thrust into his. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ju I More than I can tell you. 
He was a darling to me — I did love him. I’ve often 
thought about him and all he used to teach me. I 
am sorry, Ju, dear.” 

At this unexpected sympathy, at the sound too of 
the little catch in her voice as she spoke, Julian felt 
as if his heart would truly break. The tears flowed 
freely; he was scarcely ashamed of them. Geoffrey 
stood there, bright-eyed, his arms folded, watching 
the little scene. Eunice’s hand still clasped Julian’s, 
but she was looking at Geoffrey and observing the 
change in him, that new manliness, that cold strength, 
something that removed him forever from the mere 
school-boy. He had changed much more than 
Julian, who in his unhappiness recalled a thousand 
little scenes to her memory. 


288 


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“And your mother? Shall I see her?” 

“When we get to Folkstone. She prefers to lie 
down,” said Geoffrey, “and you know it’s going to 
be pretty rough.” 

“Jolly good thing. Miss Brent will vanish then,” 
said Eunice. 

She was still the same, Julian thought, only de- 
veloped strangely in the past few months. She was 
more independent, less of a child, and her careless 
charm was informed with the least touch of 
superiority. He would have liked to find her 
softened, more in keeping with the mental pictures 
he had sometimes formed of a Eunice grown older. 
But he was sensible — unwillingly almost — of her 
deadly power to fascinate him; a power that had, 
alas, increased a thousandfold so that it was sheer 
rapture to listen to her voice. When she had slipped 
her small warm hand into his, he had thrilled oddly 
to the touch. Tongue-tied in her presence, as so 
often he had been in d^s gone by, he could envy 
Geoffrey’s perfect, unruffled ease. But how pretty 
she was, when all was said and done, with her lovely 
soft coloring, the masses of shining black hair, the 
brilliant dark-brown eyes, her small pointed features 
drawn with such delicate, perfect finish. 

“Tell me more about your father,” she whispered 
to Geoffrey, as if she could not trust Julian’s self- 
control. 

Geoffrey told her in a quiet, steady voice the brief 
story of Norman Parmeter’s illness and death. He 
told it so simply that one could hardly have guessed 
how sternly the tragedy had touched him. Eunice 
stood between the two brothers all the time, but her 
face was turned and uplifted toward Geoffrey’s. 
While he was speaking, the steamer began to plow 
her way out of the harbor into the rough swelling 


EUNICE 289 

sea beyond. A rush of spray splashed into their 
faces and made them tingle. 

“You’d better not stand here,” said Geoffrey, “it’s 
the weather side. We’ll go over there.” He held 
Eunice by the arm, for the deck lurched beneath their 
feet as the steamer rolled into the trough of a great 
wave. Julian was just going to follow them when 
Mrs. Parmeter appeared at her cabin door. 

“Ju, darling, do come and sit with me. You 
know how nervous I am on a rough sea,” she said 
smiling, though her face and lips were white. 

Without a word he followed her into the cabin 
and sat down on a low seat by her side. She seemed 
comforted to have him there, and lay down again 
and closed her eyes. Outside they could hear the 
wind shrilling with unquiet voice, and the heavy 
splashing of the waves; it sounded as if the steamer 
were waging a battle with the elements and the sense 
of conflict oppressed him. He was thinking of those 
two figures on deck; it had cost him an effort to leave 
them. He had wanted so passionately to be with 
Eunice just for the short time they were to be on 
board. He longed to know where she would be in 
London, when she would come to visit them, when 
she was to return to Malta. 

Meanwhile Geoffrey had found two chairs in a 
sheltered spot, where he and Eunice remained until 
they reached Folkestone harbor. They were prac- 
tically alone, for most of the other passengers had 
vanished. It was raining and no glimpse of the 
white cliffs of England were visible through the thick 
mists that enveloped the coast. 

“Now tell me about yourself,” said Geoffrey. 

“Oh, there’s nothing to tell. I’m awfully happy 
with papa, you know. But he took it into his head 
that I ought to have a change, so I’m to go home for 
a couple of months.” 


290 


EUNICE 


“That’s splendid. You’ll be able to come down 
to see us in the Christmas holidays.” 

“Yes, I’d love to. Are the Eliots still living in 
Brighton?” 

“No — they left last spring. They are living in 
London, I believe, now Mildred has come out.” 

“Has she really come out? I wonder if she’ll 
marry Gilfrid Eliot? But I’m glad they’ve left. I 
hate people who throw you over as they did me. 
My mother’s married again — perhaps you heard?” 

Geoffrey shook his head. 

“She’s married Sir Chandos Mirton — he was a 
widower with three sons all older than I am. I 
don’t hear from her, of course. She does not want 
me any more. Sir Chandos has heaps of money and 
a place in Gloucestershire. I’d like to see it.” 

“Oh, you’ll never go there, I hope,” said Geof- 
frey lightly. “You belong altogether to Colonel 
Dampier now.” 

Eunice said reflectively: 

“It must be nice to have heaps and heaps of 
money. Papa isn’t at all rich, you know. Where 
has Julian gone?” 

“He went to be with mother. She called him 
just now. Shall I go and take his place? Then he 
can come to talk to you.” 

Eunice deliberated for a moment. “No,” she 
said at last, “it upset him just now to talk to me. I 
think he’s happier with your mother. But if you 
want to go, too, never mind me. I suppose if I 
hunt about below I shall eventually find Miss Brent!” 

“But I don’t want to go in the least,” said Geof- 
frey, smiling. “It’s ripping up here, isn’t it? I 
love a rough crossing.” 

At Folkestone Julian reappeared and came up to 
them. 

“Will you come to see mother, Eunice?” he said. 


EUNICE 


291 


Eunice sprang up. “Of course.” 

She ran up and kissed Mrs. Parmeter, lifting a 
glowing, flushed face to hers. “Oh, Mrs. Parmeter, 
it’s lovely to see you and Geoffrey and Julian again I” 

“But you must be sure to corne and spend a few 
days with us later on,” said Mrs. Parmeter; “the 
boys will be at school till nearly Christmas time and 
Pd like you to come when th^’re at home. It is 
their last term at school — Geoffrey is to go into the 
army next year. He wants a few months at a cram- 
mer’s first.” 

At this moment Miss Brent appeared, looking 
decidedly the worse for the brief but unpleasant 
crossing. “Come, Eunice,” she said, “we must 
collect our things.” Her voice was a little sharp. 
She had witnessed the meeting between Eunice and 
the two Parmeters, and she had disapproved of the 
manner in which her charge had rushed up to them. 

Eunice kissed Mrs. Parmeter, shook hands with 
Geoffrey and Julian, and followed Miss Brent 
obediently down the deck. Beyond a passing 
glimpse at the station they did not see her again. 

Almost Julian wished that they had not seen 
Eunice. That fleeting vision of her had confused 
the memory that dwelt in his mind with such extraor- 
dinary clearness of detail. She was immensely 
changed; her beauty was now a vivid, arresting thing 
that no one could fail to perceive; she had become 
older, more assured in manner. In quite a short 
space of time she had established a great friendliness 
between herself and Geoffrey, and in the old days 
they had never cared much for each other. He felt 
as if his own old intimacy with her had been swept 
utterly away. They could not meet as strangers, but 
they could not, on the other hand, have the easy inter- 
course of people who see each other for the first time. 

“Her mother’s married again — she’s Lady Mir- 


292 


EUNICE 


ton. Her husband is a very rich man. She doesn’t 
want Eunice any more. Queer, isn’t it?” Geof- 
frey said in the train. 

“What else did she tell you?” asked Julian. He 
was longing to hear more. To be unselfish that day 
and sit with his mother had cost him an incalculable 
effort. He saw again with envy how easily things 
came to Geoffrey, even things that were of no real 
value to him. He hadn’t wanted — yes, and prayed 
— to see Eunice again all these past months, yet he 
had been able to spend all the time of the crossing 
with her. Julian would have given worlds to change 
places with him. 

“She’s grown very tall,” said Mrs. Parmeter, 
“and she’s even prettier than she used to be. I like 
the way she does her hair.” 

“She seems very happy,” said Geoffrey. “Hap- 
pier than she really was with us. She must have 
wanted a home of her very own all the time.” 

Julian turned his head toward the window and 
began to watch the chilly, misty November landscape 
as it flashed past them in the waning daylight. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

O UTWARDLY there was so little change in the life 
at Brighton that it would hardly have seemed 
strange to any one had Mr. Parmeter suddenly re- 
turned, to vanish, as had been his custom, into the 
study at the top of the house. It often seemed as 
if his quiet, ironical presence had not been entirely 
removed, and it was difficult to accustom oneself to 
the thought that his departure was permanent. 

Mrs. Parmeter used his study a great deal. She 
left everything in the room almost exactly as it had 


EUNICE 


293 


been during his lifetime. They had spent very many 
happy hours there together, hours that were precious 
to look back upon, and filled her still with the quiet 
contentment his love had given to her. She was his 
literary executor, and was editing his collected poems 
for the press, and also writing a short biography of 
him which a firm of Catholic publishers had invited 
her to prepare. The task was a congenial one to 
her, but when she submitted very diffidently the first 
few chapters to her publishers she was astonished at 
the cordial praise they bestowed upon them. She 
was surprised to find that they accredited her with 
a certain literary skill. Norman had valued her 
opinion, and she had always imagined he was in- 
dulgent toward her on account of his love. Now 
she was made to believe by quite impartial judges 
that she had ability of her own, at once critical and 
literary. In the months that followed his death she 
had an extraordinary amount of leisure, during 
which she devoted herself to these tasks. After 
Christmas, when Geoffrey was working at a cram- 
mer’s in London and Julian had returned to school 
for two more terms without him before going to 
Oxford, she took up the work without delay and the 
book was published during the following autumn. 
Not one of Norman’s own books — not excepting 
“The Vision of Saints,” which had attained to a 
far greater measure of popularity than the others — 
had ever made so immediate a success as the little 
memorial volume prepared by his wife in all its 
delicate and fastidious simplicity. Afraid of saying 
too much, of revealing too intimately the poet nature 
which she had studied so lovingly and loyally, she 
scarcely said enough to satisfy the majority of her 
readers. The letters she included were perhaps the 
most beautiful Norman had ever written. One 
especially, written to a young man at Oxford, an 


294 


EUNICE 


intending convert, might, she felt, have been written 
by a very experienced priest long trained to the guid- 
ance of souls. She had known the end of the story, 
the boy’s subsequent conversion, by which he for- 
feited a rich and important inheritance, and his 
heroic death a few years later in some frontier 
skirmish in India. When she herself read the letter 
(it had been sent to her by the man’s sister, who had 
followed him into the Catholic Church and then 
become a Carmelite nun) she felt that the fierce 
flame of faith seemed to make the very pages glow 
as with some interior fire. She felt, too, that she had 
never known all that she might have known of Nor- 
man. He had been enigmatic, as silent people so 
often are, not giving greatly by the spoken word. 

The twins seemed to grow up with appalling 
rapidity after their father’s death. Already they 
were eighteen, and Geoffrey was having a brilliant 
career at Sandhurst. Julian was at Oxford, and 
had so far evolved no very crystallized line of action 
for the future. He said sometimes that he would 
prefer to have a profession that would allow of his 
living at home with his mother; writing, for in- 
stance. He had three or four years of Oxford 
before him and there was no need to make an im- 
mediate decision. 

Nevertheless, Mrs. Parmeter was often anxious 
about Julian. The contrast between his dreamy 
indolence and indecision and Geoffrey’s ability and 
energy were getting more marked. The two 
brothers were now very close friends. Since his 
father’s death Geoffrey had slipped into the position 
of elder son, and Julian never contested the point; 
he knew quite well that Geoffrey was far better able 
to arrange things, details of business, financial 
matters, than he was. When they were twenty-one 
they were each to possess one-third of their father’s 


EUNICE 


295 


fortune, the remaining third being allotted to Mrs. 
Parmeter, who was quite well off, having money of 
her own. Although Geoffrey would scarcely ever 
be at home, she and Julian resolved to keep on the 
house in Brighton. Both of them disliked the 
thought of making any radical change in their way of 
living, and Geoffrey agreed with the decision; he 
liked to have the house to come back to when he 
obtained leave. 

Geoffrey spent the autumn of their twenty-first 
birthday in London. He was on leave, and was 
spending the time in studying for a special course 
which he wished to take. He was still very hard- 
working, very ambitious, and extremely popular with 
every one. He liked going out almost as much as 
Julian disliked it. Julian came back for the winter 
vacation and stayed in Brighton all the time. He 
was always writing, secretly, as it were, in the old 
school-room, which had now become his study. He 
never talked to his mother about this work of his, 
and if she ever mentioned it he answered evasively. 
Was it poetry? she used to ask herself, almost m 
dismay. Was he to follow in his father’s footsteps? 
With all her heart she hoped not. She knew some- 
thing of the poet’s striving and unsuccess and fre- 
quent disappointments. She knew how little demand 
there is normally during a poet’s lifetime for his 
work. There was, it is true, very often a certain 
degree of posthumous fame, as there had been in 
Norman’s own case. And she did not think that 
Julian had the same quality of courage to meet that 
want of success as his father had met it, in a brave, 
calm, half-ironic spirit. It would perhaps throw 
Julian back upon discouragement, upon hurtful idle- 
ness. It was strange that Julian, whom she had 
always understood the better of the two, gave her 
so much more anxiety in those days than Geoffrey. 


296 


EUNICE 


By a variety of circumstances it had fallen out 
that they had none of them seen Eunice again since 
the chance meeting on the Channel steamer. She 
had not been able to visit them before her return to 
Malta, which had taken place rather earlier than she 
had expected. And after that meeting Julian found 
it far less easy to write to her. The correspondence 
between them, always fitful and irregular on her side, 
had now entirely ceased. But Julian had by no 
means forgotten her; he clung to those early 
memories of her with a fidelity which would have 
touched her had she known it. 

Lady Eliot, after a couple of years in India, had 
returned to London to educate her younger daughters, 
who were now quite big girls, gay, fascinating, 
sophisticated children who seemed to belong to quite 
a different order from Mildred. They lived in a 
large and roomy house in South Kensington, and 
Geoffrey meeting them at the house of a mutual 
friend was invited to dinner. Lady Eliot was 
charmed with the handsome, clever young man, tales 
of whose brilliant attainments had already reached 
her. He had the reputation of being quite well off 
and was a steady boy, ambitious and serious. She 
therefore resumed the acquaintance without hesita- 
tion. When Geoffrey arrived at her house on the 
evening arranged she greeted him with the words : 

“You’ll meet an old friend to-night, Geoffrey.” 

“Do tell me who it is,” said Geoffrey, smiling, 
pleased at being addressed by his Christian name; ^ 
it gave him an agreeable sense of intimacy. 

“I want you to guess.” 

“You don’t mean — Eunice Dampier?” he 
hazarded, failing at the moment to recall any one 
else who had shared with the Eliots those far-off 
Brighton days. 

The next moment he remembered the coolness 


EUNICE 


297 


that had sprung up between the two families after 
the scandal of the divorce had been made public, and 
he colored, fearing he had made a gafe. 

“Yes, Eunice and her father are coming,” said 
Lady Eliot. “You know Colonel Dampier’s quite 
a big-wig now at the War Office — they’ve been in 
town for the last two months. I’m surprised you 
haven’t kept up with them.” 

Geoffrey was astonished into saying; “And I’m 
surprised that you have !” 

“Oh, there’s nothing surprising in that,” said Lady 
Eliot, secretly thinking that the young man had far 
too ready a tongue. “We met them in Switzerland 
last summer. It was awfully dull — they were the 
only possible English people besides ourselves in the 
hotel. It was a question, you see, of going away 
ourselves — and we’d only just come — or of burying 
the ancient hatchet — which was never really a hat- 
chet! Mildred and Eunice had fallen into each 
other’s arms before I had time to come to a decision, 
so Colonel Dampier and I had to make the best of 
the situation.” She wanted to show Geoffrey that 
the rapprochement had been quite fortuitous, there 
had been no deliberate reconciliation, on her side 
with a man who had just become an important big- 
wig. “Eunice is very much admired,” she went on 
lowering her voice, “so much personality — she al- 
ways had that — and she really is quite pretty.” 

“I haven’t seen her for ages,” Geoffrey confessed, 
“it must be nearly five years. It was just after my 
father’s death.” 

He found the prospect of seeing her again a very 
agreeable one. Geoffrey always got on well with 
women and girls. 

Mildred interrupted his thoughts by saying: 

“She’s lovelier than ever,” in a tone of humble 
adoration. 


298 


EUNICE 


“Dear child — you must let Geoffrey judge for 
himself, “ said Lady Eliot. 

The guests began to arrive. Geoffrey already 
knew some of them, to others he was presented. 
At last Colonel Dampier entered, his tall, impressive, 
soldierly form still very upright. He had filled out 
a little in the course of years, was no longer so thin; 
his thick white hair and heavy black brows gave his 
face an arresting quality. By his side was a tall, 
slender girl, with black hair and eyes, very graceful 
and dressed in a delicate, fanciful, artistic manner 
that pleased Geoffrey. It gave her an air of in- 
dividuality. She and her father made a striking 
pair. 

“Here’s a very old friend, Eunice,” said Lady 
Eliot, indicating Geoffrey. 

Eunice looked at him. “Why it’s Geoffrey,” she 
said with a charming smile as she held out her hand. 
“Papa — this is Geoffrey Parmeter.” 

“I don’t think I dare call you Eunice now,” said 
Geoffrey. 

“But you mustn’t really offend me by calling me 
anything else. Must he?” She appealed to her 
father, who smiled indulgently upon his very beauti- 
ful young daughter. 

Her eyes met Geoffrey’s squarely; he felt almost 
abashed by their quick scrutiny and he longed to 
know the result of that criticism. Her beauty — the 
very brilliance of it — had startled him a little; he 
was not quite at his ease, a sensation which was as 
rare with him as it was embarrassing. 

“You must take her in to dinner,” said Lady Eliot 
kindly, “then you can talk over nursery days.” 

“You two always fought like cat and dog, didn’t 
you?” said Mildred, who was often unfortunate in 
her reminiscences. 


EUNICE 


299 

“Well, we will promise not to fight now,” said 
Geoffrey cheerfully. 

He found himself presently sitting beside her at 
the long table in what was for him a strangely 
tongue-tied condition. But Eunice was the least shy 
of mortals ; she chattered gaily and soon set him at 
his ease again. 

“Now tell me about Julian,” she said; “is he in 
London too?” 

“No — Fm reading with a tutor. You see, Fm 
going up for a course. Fm on leave. Did Lady 
Eliot tell you I was in the army?” 

“She never mentioned you at all. I expect she 
wanted to give us both a surprise. Papa was de- 
lighted to hear you’d gone into the army; he likes 
everybody to — all young men, I mean. You must 
talk to him presently.” She threw an affectionate 
glance at her father across the table. “Is Ju in the 
army too?” 

“No, he’s still at Oxford. And he’s not exactly 
cut out for a soldier.” Geoffrey’s blue eyes brimmed 
with amusement. 

“Is he clever?” 

Geoffrey hesitated, as if reflecting upon the matter. 
He did not wish in any way to denigrate his brother 
nor to belittle him in the eyes of his old friend, but 
he found the question extraordinarily difficult to 
answer. What could he say when he considered that 
painstaking and industrious disability to get through 
the necessary examinations? It was doubtful if 
Julian would ever take a degree at all. 

“Not in the way that counts at Oxford,” he said 
at last, and then was angry with himself for choosing 
those words. 

Eunice looked a trifle disappointed. Long ago 
Julian had been her very faithful, adoring friend. 
She liked all that she remembered of him immensely; 


300 


EUNICE 


he had been far dearer to her than Geoffrey, who 
had now evolved into the clever, handsome creature 
at her side. 

“You mean he couldn’t pass at the top like you 
did?” 

“Oh, that’s only knack,” he hastened to assure 
her, “it doesn’t mean anything at all. And how did 
you know anything about that?” 

“I saw it in the paper. Papa noticed it too. 
Nothing in the ‘Times’ ever escapes him I” 

“At school they didn’t want me to go into the 
army,” he confessed; “they wanted me to try for the 
Indian Civil.” 

“We want clever men in the army too. Papa will 
tell you that.” There was a little touch of flattery 
in the speech that charmed him. 

“You never let us know you were in England,” he 
said in a tone full of reproach. 

“We have only been here such a short time. And 
until now I was never here for more than a few 
weeks when there was always so much to do.” He 
remained, hov/ever, under the impression that some- 
thing had held her back from taking up those old 
Brighton threads. 

“You must blame papa, not me,” she continued; 
“he keeps me under lock and key. He doesn’t look 
like a tyrant, but he is.” She smiled straight across 
the table at Colonel Dampier as she spoke, and his 
hard, sad, tired face lit up wonderfully in response. 
There was something very pretty in this attitude of 
filial devotion. 

“And I have to keep my eye on him too,” she went 
on. “If I went away very often he might take it 
into his head to marry a horrible wife. I’ve lived in 
dread of a stepmother all these years. Every one 
has told him it was his duty to marry again — on my 
account, if you please I” 


EUNICE 


301 

“rm glad then for your sake he resisted every 
one/’ said Geoffrey, in his frank, pleasant way. 

“Are you still a Catholic?” was her next question. 

It was unexpected. “What do you think?” he 
parried, his blue amused eyes holding hers. 

“Because I like to go to the Oratory — we live so 
near. I enjoy the music.” 

“Perhaps we shall meet there one day,” he sug- 
gested. 

She took no notice of this. After all, if she had 
an ulterior motive in going, it wouldn’t be to meet 
him. He wondered if there could be any possible 
solution to this question in her next words. 

“And Julian?” 

“What of Julian?” 

“Is he still — so very devout?” 

“As far as I know he is. We don’t see so much 
of each other now.” 

“I should like to see him again,” she said. “I — 
I used to be very fond of Julian. He was like — my 
own brother.” 

“Get Colonel Dampier to bring you down home 
one day,” he said. 

“I’ll try. But he’s simply awfully busy at the 
War Office. You must come to tea with us — tea on 
Sunday.” She made the slightest possible grimace. 
“Papa likes me to stay at home on Sunday after- 
noons and receive swarms of old fogies — people he 
knew in India in the Year One!” 

“Let me come and be a fogy too,” said Geoffrey. 
“I’d like to come this very next Sunday if I may.” 

“There’s no chance, I suppose, of your being able 
to bring Ju?” 

“None at all. I’m afraid. He’s in Brighton now. 
Shan’t I do nearly as well?” 

She laughed. “You’ll do beautifully. But it 


302 EUNICE 

won’t be the same thing. I want to talk about heaps 
of things to Julian.” 

“I’m sure he’ll be tremendously flattered,” said 
Geoffrey. 

“Oh no, he won’t. Julian will understand just 
what I mean.” 

Geoffrey was thinking that for years he had never 
heard Julian mention Eunice. Had he forgotten 
her? Certainly he could never imagine her as she 
was now, with all the charm of her twenty years, and 
all the extravagant beauty of her youth. But he had 
been deeply devoted to her during their childhood; 
even Geoffrey had never been quite able to forget 
the white, dumb look of misery on his face when he 
heard of her sudden departure. Now he felt some- 
thing akin to jealousy at her eager interest in Julian, 
her evident desire to see him again. He thrust the 
feeling away from him as an unworthy one. He 
was meeting Eunice to-night almost as a stranger. 
She was no longer the small, passionate, turbulent 
girl with whom he had quarreled and fought times 
out of number; she was a woman, soft, delicious, 
alluring. He felt keenly attracted by her, and the 
charm of her voice entranced him. He wished that 
the evening might never end. It even came into his 
head that when he married — perhaps in about ten 
years time — he would wish to marry some one very 
like Eunice Dampier. He should certainly write to 
tell Julian he had come across her. Julian would 
like to hear news of his old friend. Perhaps for her 
sake he would condescend to come out of his shell. 

After dinner she insited upon taking Geoffrey up 
to her father. 

“Papa — you must talk to Geoffrey. He’s in the 
army. Give him lots of good advice 1” 

“Very glad to hear you’re in the army,” he said 
to Geoffrey. “We noticed — Eunice and I — how 


EUNICE 


303 


high you passed into Sandhurst. It did you very 
great credit.” And he looked approvingly at Geof- 
frey’s wholesome, manly, sunburned face crowned 
with its thick crop of yellow hair. 

They remained in conversation for some time, 
discussing service matters, while Eunice left them 
and went across the room to talk to Mildred. Be- 
fore Colonel Dampier took his daughter away that 
night he said to Geoffrey : 

“I hope you’ll come to see us whenever you like. 
Onslow Square — I hope Eunice has given you the 
address. Come on Sunday as a beginning.” 

“Thanks very much indeed, sir,” said Geoffrey. 

He went home to his rooms in Albemarle Street, 
feeling thoroughly satisfied with his evening. 


CHAPTER XXXII 

T o see Eunice Dampier doing the honors of her 
father’s house in that pretty and charming way 
of hers was an agreeable sight to Geoffrey Par- 
meter. He found her on the following Sunday sur- 
rounded by quite a throng of people of all ages and 
descriptions. There were grizzled, elderly retired 
officers and their wives and very often their grown- 
up sons and daughters; here and there an Anglo- 
Indian of note was visible; fashionable young 
married women came, sometimes accompanied by 
their husbands. Eunice had her own circle of 
friends, and certainly — as Geoffrey soon perceived — 
her own little group of devoted admirers. She had 
a special greeting for him when he came, introduced 
hini to some of her friends, and he was only dis- 
appointed because he had the chance of saying so 
few words to her himself. 


304 


EUNICE 


Mildred was almost always there, and though he 
liked her as little as ever, he often found himself 
talking to her. Once he remembered to ask after 
Gilfrid Eliot. 

“He’s been away traveling round the world. 
He’s been gone ages, nearly two years. But he’s 
to be back this spring, and then he’s going to settle 
down at Denscombe — his place in Surrey.” Mil- 
dred offered this information without comment. 
She was perfectly aware that her mother intended 
she should marry Gilfrid, and his return to Eng- 
land gave her a feeling half of pleasure, half of 
dread. Rich, handsome, and popular as he was, she 
felt certain that he would never care for her. 

“It’s a large property,” she went on, “he’s very 
rich, you know.” She felt that Geoffrey was inter- 
ested. “You must see him when he comes. I re- 
member you used to be friends.” 

Best of all, perhaps, he enjoyed his rare conver- 
sations with Colonel Dampier. Under his advice 
his present studies had become very serious indeed, 
and his work all that winter was very strenuous. 
The flame of ambition had been fanned; he wanted 
ardently to succeed. But in writing home he re- 
frained from mentioning the Dampiers. In this reti- 
cence he was guided by an obscure but persistent feel- 
ing that his recovered intimacy with them might 
wound or at least annoy Julian. He was so aware 
of Julian’s ancient childish devotion to Eunice, and 
he wondered how much of the sentiment survived 
still. It was an affection which had even in the old 
days won but little in return from her capricious 
waywardness, yet now it was certain that she was 
interested in and curious concerning Julian. Geof- 
frey could remember that for his own part he never 
cared for her, had often despised her. Now, 
strangely enough, she was the only girl who had 


EUNICE 


305 


ever even remotely attracted him. He liked her at- 
titude toward her father, filial, almost maternal, in- 
variably solicitous, yet bright and playful, as if to 
cheer him, from his always profound melancholy. 
She charmed Geoffrey altogether, and he would 
often in the midst of his work pause to think of her, 
to visualize the pale little oval face, the dark hair 
and vivid eyes. He could not quite picture Julian in 
the midst of that rather gay and worldly throng, 
and he wondered if he would ever have to escort 
him thither. Yet even there Julian would have 
slight opportunity of gathering up the threads of 
that past intimacy, and the field was already over- 
crowded; he had often idly wondered which of the 
many charming and brilliant young men to be seen 
in Onslow Square was destined to be the husband 
of Eunice. 

He had been going there on Sundays pretty regu- 
larly for some weeks with an occasional invitation 
to dinner in between, when he decided in favor of a 
Major Ardley, who was at home on leave just then. 
He had known Colonel Dampier very well in India 
and he spent a great deal of time at their house, and 
was evidently very welcome there whenever he chose 
to go. Geoffrey didn’t altogether take to him. He 
made him feel boyish and awkward. He was about 
fifteen years his senior, a tall man with a hard, de- 
cided face and keen, sharp eyes. He had a clever, 
witty tongue, a bitter expression, as if things had 
not always gone quite well with him. Nor had 
Geoffrey’s frequent appearances in the house es- 
caped his notice. He said one day casually to Colo- 
nel Dampier: 

“Who’s that yellow-haired boy with a pretty good 
conceit of himself? He’s always here.” 

“Oh, that’s Geoffrey Parmeter — the son of the 
people Eunice lived with when she was a little girl.” 


3o6 


EUNICE 


Ardley frowned. “What’s he in?” 

Colonel Dampier named the Lancer regiment to 
which Geoffrey belonged. “Parmeter left both his 
boys pretty well off. He has a twin brother.’’ 

Ardley was not rich, and much of his life had been 
spent in a bitter uphill struggle with poverty. 

“He is making the most of an old friendship,’’ he 
remarked acidly, for at that moment Geoffrey was 
sitting talking and laughing with Eunice, quite un- 
conscious that he was being observed. 

“Oh, there’s nothing of that sort,’’ said Colonel 
Dampier; “besides, it wouldn’t do at all. They are 
a Roman Catholic family.’’ 

“Girls are always ready to become Roman Cath- 
olics,” said Ardley. 

“I’m sure that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to 
Eunice. And Geoffrey is a mere boy — he’s quite 
refreshingly young and simple,” said Colonel Dam- 
pier. 

He was suddenly aware how much he should dis- 
like Eunice to marry a Roman Catholic; it would 
take her so utterly away from him. But he had had 
no scruple about letting Geoffrey come to his house. 
It was Julian, the brother, who had been her friend. 
There might have been some danger about encour- 
aging him on so intimate a footing. . . . He was 
aware that Ardley wished to marry Eunice, and 
though he liked him he could not feel that he was 
the right man for her. The difference in their ages 
was too great, and he did not want Eunice to live in 
India. She was very dear to him, and if she mar- 
ried he hoped that she would not live too far away. 

Geoffrey went down to Brighton toward the end 
of January to see Julian before he returned to Ox- 
ford. His own leave was up, and he had been for 
some weeks back at Aldershot, generally contriving 
to spend the week-ends in London. The house in 


EUNICE 


307 


Brunswick Terrace seemed to him unusually quiet. 
Mrs. Parmeter was at work on a fresh volume of 
critical essays, and she was silent, as many people 
are when engaged upon literary work. And Julian? 
Julian was a little more incomprehensible to his 
brother than he had ever been before. He spent 
most of his time shut up in his study writing, and 
resenting any interruption. Geoffrey knew that they 
had been living in this dull, quiet way for the past 
two months. The thought irritated him, yet why 
should they not spend the time as they chose? It 
was unreasonable that he should cavil at it. He 
had been working himself, but in a different way 
and with a very fixed and special purpose in view, 
yet he had found time to go out a good deal, he 
had seen all the new plays and pictures, and had 
dined out quite as often as he had wished to. If the 
quiet were necessary for Mrs. Parmeter, who en- 
joyed the new task of expressing herself with all the 
zest of a person who has come fresh to it in middle 
life, it could not possibly be so essential for Julian. 
Julian was young, he needed waking up; a little of 
Colonel Dampier’s ardent inspiring influence would 
be very beneficial to him. He wanted stimulating 
. . . Geoffrey felt that in the last few months he had 
traveled far away from his home, and he was aware 
that something of his sympathy for it had left him. 

At dinner that first night he found an opportunity 
of saying carelessly: 

“Pve been seeing something of Colonel Dampier 
and Eunice in town. He’s got an appointment at the 
War Office.” 

“Oh, are they back in London?” said Mrs. Par- 
meter, surprised; “you never told us.” 

She did not look at Julian; she wondered what 
effect the news would have upon him. 

“I met them at the Eliots’,” said Geoffrey, in the 


3o8 


EUNICE 


pleasant way that made all his doings sound so per- 
fectly plausible and reasonable that one quite forgot 
to be surprised. 

“Are they friends again with the Eliots?” Some- 
how Mrs. Parmeter had believed that rupture would 
be permanent. But modern people have a happy 
facility for burying hatchets. 

“Yes, they met in Switzerland when it wasn’t ap- 
parently possible to cut each other. Lady Eliot was 
rather funny about it. And, as Mrs. Dampier has 
completely vanished from the scene, there was really 
no reason to cut so important a person as Colonel 
Dampier is now. Eunice is busy keeping house for 
her father and she does it all very prettily.” 

“What has she grown up like?” asked Mrs. Par- 
meter; “is she much altered?” 

“Oh, she’s a very charming person indeed,” said 
Geoffrey, smiling; “she’s not at all like the rampa- 
geous little girl we used to know.” He turned for the 
first time to Julian, who sat there, pale and silent, 
with oddly blazing eyes. “She asked after you, Ju. 
Wanted to know when you were likely to be in 
town.” 

“I’m astonished she should remember us,” said 
Julian. He had no idea why he said those words; 
they were the first that occurred to him. The whole 
conversation was like a dream. To think that 
Eunice should be in England^ — should be living in 
London — and he had not known it! 

“Poor little Eunice — I should like to see her 
again,” said Mrs. Parmeter softly. 

“There’s nothing about her that deserves your 
pity, mother,” said Geoffrey. 

“She must be nearly twenty. How time flies 1” 

Julian relapsed into his brooding silence. But his 
thoughts, his hurrying, confused, crowded thoughts, 
were full of Eunice; and he was trying to stifle a 


EUNICE 


309 


dark, cold feeling of jealousy that was invading his 
heart like a bitter wave. That Geoffrey should have 
been the one to see her again after her long years of 
absence and silence ! But Geoffrey had all the luck. 
Things came to him easily, almost unwanted, and he 
accepted them lightly, welcoming them with a 
pleasant simplicity that never cost him a moment’s 
emotion. That was how he would go through life, 
winning honor, perhaps fame. He would never 
struggle and strain and then know defeat. Were 
they friends now, these two, forgetful of their early 
enmity? Geoffrey had spoken of her in a tone of 
half-jesting admiration. Was he in love with her? 
For Eunice still remained to Julian a beautiful vision 
that had inexpressibly gladdened his childhood and 
early boyhood, and whose perfect memory could 
never be wholly effaced from his heart. 

“Isn’t she coming to see us?’’ he asked at last, and 
his voice was a little hoarse with effort. 

“I’m sure she’ll come if she’s asked, and if Colonel 
Dampier can spare her,’’ said Geoffrey. “They’re 
tremendously devoted to each other — she hardly 
ever leaves him.” 

“I suppose that’s why she has never written to 
suggest coming,” said Mrs. Parmeter. She, too, 
was a little hurt by the omission. Eunice had been 
so much her own child for such a number of years, 
she did not like to think that the tie was altogether 
broken. And there was Julian. . . She longed to 
know what was in his mind. 

Julian was silent all through the rest of the meal. 
He played with his food, eating very little. When 
dinner was over he soon made some excuse to go up 
to his den. 

To-night he felt unable to work. Outside, the 
winter wind was slashing the rain against the win- 
dows ; there was something savage and violent in its 


310 


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onslaught and the sound made him restless and un- 
easy. From a drawer he took out a heap of type- 
script, scored with frequent corrections, and glanced 
through the pages inattentively. The novel he had 
been secretly writing in his spare time for two years 
past was nearly finished. Before his return to Ox- 
ford he intended to send it to a publisher. Like all 
dreamers, he dreamed of fame — fame sudden and 
far-spreading. This book was to win him fame. 
And through it many fair and desirable things were 
to come to him. Eunice would read it — she would 
see the name of her old companion on its title-page, 
she would write to him, the long silence between them 
would be broken. His last two letters to her had 
remained unanswered, probably because she had for- 
gotten or been too lazy to write. There had been 
no deliberate breaking of the old friendship; it had 
died a natural death on her side from long separa- 
tion, and the coming of other interests. But always 
he had lived with the hope that had never left him 
of seeing her again, of resuming something of that 
delicious intimacy, that close interchange of thought, 
which they had known as children. As yet it had 
not occurred to him that the friendship might, if re- 
sumed, deepen, especially on his side, into a love that 
might prove the making or marring of his life. 

And now it seemed to him that Geoffrey had 
stepped in and robbed his dream of something of its 
shining, wonderful quality. Geoffrey with his care- 
lessly-drawn picture of Eunice had set her a little 
farther away, a little more out of his reach. 

All through the vacation he had been working 
very hard at his novel and at last it was beginning to 
assume a shape that did not quite dissatisfy him. 
He had felt that his father’s reputation as a poet 
might be of use to him. . . By Julian Parmeter — 
son of the well-known poet, the late Norman Par- 


EUNICE 


311 

meter, author of “The Vision of Saints.” Yes, that 
was perhaps how they would speak of him, and even 
try to discover in his work something of his father’s 
careful felicity of phrase. . . He was very young to 
write a book, but younger men than he had written 
books that had procured for them name and fame. 
And he meant to succeed, to succeed in his own way, 
clinging to his quiet and solitary life that was so 
unlike Geoffrey’s. 

In the drawing-room Mrs. Parmeter was saying 
to Geoffrey : 

“I should like Eunice to come down to pay us a 
visit. Perhaps at Easter, when Julian will be at 
home again. I’m sure he would like to see her.” 

Geoffrey only said: “He was very queer at 
dinner. What’s the matter with the man?” 

“You know he never says much,” answered Mrs. 
Parmeter gently; “but I suppose he was thinking 
about her — perhaps he felt a little disappointed at 
her not taking any steps to see us.” 

“I don’t believe that they’d get on now a little 
bit,” said Geoffrey. 

He half expected that Julian would propose ac- 
companying him to visit the Dampiers on his way 
through town, but he did no such thing, and never 
once alluded to Eunice during the rest of Geoffrey’s 
stay. After the first abrupt feeling of disappoint- 
ment, Julian returned to his novel actuated by a fresh 
and powerful impulse. In that indulgence of imag- 
ination which was so growing upon him he again 
pictured himself as the successful young author be- 
fore whom all trivial barriers would give way. He 
would win fame, perhaps even more quickly than 
Geoffrey, with all his superior abilities. He would 
be the first to possess laurels to lay at the feet of 
Eunice. 

It was odd how the thought of Eunice still obsessed 


312 


EUNICE 


him after all these years, showing how completely he 
lived in a world of dreams that had little connection 
with his practical, every-day life. He had grown up 
with the image of her fixed in his heart, and no girl 
of flesh and blood had come into his life to dethrone 
that now half-imaginary figure. It was not, certainly, 
the Eunice whom Geoffrey knew, the pretty, charm- 
ing, indulged girl he saw so often in London. Julian 
had never seen her, did not know her. But she was 
still for him the little girl who had cried with her 
head on his shoulder here in this very room, with the 
summer dusk deepening about them and the rush of 
the waves in their ears. This one clung limpet-like 
to his memory, refusing to be banished. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

G eoffrey walked across the park to South Ken- 
sington one sharp February afternoon. The sky 
was opaque, leaden-colored, promising snow. A 
shrill wind beat the leafless boughs of the trees to a 
frenzy of futile revolt. Winter — the bleak, dark, 
uncompromising winter of London — held the city in 
its iron grip. But the cold was not disagreeable to 
Geoffrey. He walked fast, battling with the wind 
with the careless strength of a boy that spends itself 
so generously upon physical effort. Half-way across 
the path that dipped to the Serpentine he encountered 
Colonel Dampier walking alone. 

“Hullo, Parmeter — I didn’t know you were in 
town,” he said. 

“Just for a couple of days’ leave, sir,” said Geof- 
frey, “and I’m on my way to see Eunice. Shall I 
find her in?” 

“Yes, and I think you’ll find her alone. She’s 


EUNICE 


313 

got rather a cold — I advised her not to go out. 
This wind is a bit cutting, isn’t it?” 

He looked rather fixedly at Geoffrey’s handsome 
fair face all flushed with the cold, and some words 
of Ardley’s came back to his mind with faint mis- 
giving. 

“You must cheer her up,” he said, after a 
moment’s pause. “I’m afraid I leave her too much 
alone.” 

“She seems to me to be hardly ever alone,” said 
Geoffrey, “she’s got such crowds of friends.” 

“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m on my way to the 
club.” 

They parted and Geoffrey resumed his walk, 
pleased rather than otherwise with the little en- 
counter. He walked more quickly ; it was pleasant to 
think that he was to find Eunice, that in a few min- 
utes he would see her again. He had feared that 
Ardley might be there. He had not been to Onslow 
Square for some weeks, and a certain timidity came 
over him as he stood on the doorstep and rang the 
bell. 

Eunice was sitting alone by the fire in the drawing- 
room when he was ushered in by the man-servant — 
obviously an old soldier. She looked up quickly 
when Geoffrey was announced and then sprang from 
her chair and came toward him. 

“Oh, Geoffrey, when did you come back? I’m so 
glad to see you !” 

With such a spontaneous welcome Geoffrey’s 
courage returned. He took the hand she held out 
and looked down upon her from his great height. 

“How awfully nice of you to say that,” he said; 
“by the way, I met your father in the park just now 
— he said I should find you in.” 

“We’ll have tea,” said Eunice. 

“Oh, it’s too early for tea,” he remonstrated. 


3H 


EUNICE 


“No — ^you must be cold — you ought to have 
some.” She pressed the bell and gave orders for 
tea to be brought. Then she lay back a little in her 
chair and contemplated Geoffrey. , 

“How’s Ju? Did you see him?” she said at last. 

“Yes — I was down there just before he went up to 
Oxford this term,” he answered. 

“I thought — I thought — you would be sure to 
bring him here,” she said with a touch of hesitation. 

“He didn’t suggest it,” said Geoffrey. 

“I wanted to see him. I wanted to talk to him.” 

“If he’d known that I’m sure he would have 
come,” said Geoffrey carefully, “it’s a pity you didn’t 
write to ask him.” 

“How could I ? When I don’t even know that he 
wouldn’t think it a bore.” 

“You must have forgotten your Julian,” said 
Geoffrey dryly. 

“No — I haven’t forgotten him. But people 
change, you know.” 

With great temerity the suggestion forced itself 
to his lips. 

“I’m Ju’s twin brother. In his absence won’t you 
try to make me do?” 

She shook her head, with the resolute gesture he 
remembered. 

“Ju was just like my own brother in the old days. 
You never were.” 

“Let me make up for it, then,” said Geoffrey, still 
smiling, “by being like your own brother now. And 
don’t remind me, please, what a horrid little boy I 
used to be. It isn’t fair I” 

“You were horrid,” she said laughing. “I hated 
you. But that was because you hurt my pride — you 
didn’t want to be friends with me.” 

“I don’t remember it,” he said frankly, “but then 
I never remember anything. Mine’s a very happy 


EUNICE 


315 


kind of memory — just the right sort for ‘exams* and 
reminding me to go to places I want to. But, if it’s 
true that I didn’t want to be friends with you then, 
Eunice, you must really believe me when I say I’d 
most frightfully like to be friends with you now I” 

He put enough warmth and enthusiasni into this 
speech to convince Eunice that he was really in 
earnest in spite of his light, jesting manner. She 
said almost absent-mindedly: 

“That’s awfully kind of you.” 

“I’d like to try to make up for all my beastliness 
when I was a horrid little boy I” he continued. 

“But it wouldn’t even then make talking to you 
quite the same thing as talking to Julian,” she ob- 
jected. 

He protested, however, against this view. 

“Why, you haven’t seen Ju for years! It’s at 
least five years — six, perhaps — since you went away 
to Malta. Six years makes a lot of difference. 
He’d be just as much a stranger to you as I was the 
first time we met again at the Eliots’.” 

She was still unconvinced. “He could never seem 
like a stranger to me. I should always find it easier 
to talk to him about certain things than to any one 
else. And I did want to talk to him now about 
something very particular.” 

Again he had the feeling that he was taking ad- 
vantage of Julian, of his curious reticence, his shy, 
retreating nature. It was Julian who should have 
been sitting here in his place — Julian by reason of 
those long years of dumb, dogged devotion. 

“I don’t see what’s to be done, then,” he confessed 
ruefully, “short of trying to dislodge him from his 
fastness. He’s at Oxford now — he’s got his nose 
in his books — I even doubt if he’d come.” 

“He’d come for me — if I asked him,” she said 
with decision. 


EUNICE 


316 

Geoffrey waited a moment. He didn’t understand 
Julian, couldn’t make out why he hadn’t hurried here 
when first he learned that Eunice was living in 
London. It was at least as inexplicable as her never 
lifting a finger to come down to visit them at Brigh- 
ton. If they really so desired to see each other 
again, why did they both avoid the simple, obvious 
method? Geoffrey had no sympathy with people 
who made unnecessary complications and difficulties 
about getting what they wanted, when the way was 
quite clear and no scruple of conscience prevented 
them from taking it. 

‘‘He’s awfully changed, you know,” he said at 
last, “even to me he seems different.” 

“Of course he must be changed,” a little im- 
patiently. “I’m not so silly as to think he’s still a boy 
of fifteen or sixteen. But he’s still Julian, for all 
that — just as you’re Geoffrey and I’m Eunice I” 

“Am I still,” he ventured, “the Geoffrey you re- 
member?” 

“Not quite.” She considered him gravely with 
those dark-brown eyes of hers that were almost too 
beautiful. “You’re nicer, you know. And I think 
you like me better now — I think you really do want 
to be friends.” 

Geoffrey’s handsome fair face was quite trium- 
phant. 

“And if that’s so, my dear Eunice, do try to make 
this important communication to me, because I’m 
here and Julian isn’t I” 

Eunice looked away; her eyes fixed meditatively 
upon the glowing fire. Her little chin rested on her 
hand. She was charming in this posture, so slight 
and dark and vivid. Geoffrey, who had been assur- 
ing himself for the last three months that he wasn’t 
the least bit in love with her — it was simply rot for 
a man of his age to imagine he was in love at all — 


EUNICE 


317 


now felt with every nerve the fascination of her. 
He would have liked to sit there for hours, just 
watching her, not caring greatly what she said, nor 
even if she spoke at all. 

“There’s one thing,” he continued, as she didn’t 
speak, controlling his voice so that it sounded at once 
strained and soft, “you couldn’t if you tried find Ju 
a more sympathetic listener than I should be if you’ll 
make the experiment.” 

While he said the words he felt again that queer 
sense of disloyalty toward Julian, as if he were rob- 
bing him of what should have been his just reward. 
“I am reaping where I have not sown,” he thought. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure,” said Geoffrey, with smiling convic- 
tion. 

“Because — I want advice.” 

“But your father — surely?” 

“No. He would be of no use. He wouldn’t 
approve.” 

“Perhaps if that’s the case I shouldn’t approve 
either,” he said gaily. 

“Yes, — I’ve been afraid of that. And, you see, 
that’s where I should feel so sure about Julian!” 

She scored the point without apparent triumph. 

“For you see if he’s changed in every thing else in 
the world he won’t have changed in that,” she added. 

“I give it up I” said Geoffrey. He was dismayed 
and puzzled. All sorts of possibilities floated 
nebulously through his mind. “Won’t you tell me? 
Try to think of me as an old friend who wants to 
make up for past unkindness. And who wants to 
help you with all his heart.” 

He bent over and some impulse prompted him to 
touch Eunice’s hand. She did not draw it away and 
he came a little nearer, holding her thin brown fin- 
gers in his. He had never thus held a girl’s hand 


3i8 


EUNICE 


before, and it seemed to him rather surprising that 
he should wish to do so now. Julian’s courage, he 
reflected, would never have been equal to this, he was 
not the one to seize opportunity by the wings. 

“With all his heart,” he repeated. 

Eunice turned and looked at him with a sudden 
cold scrutiny, as if she were silently and deliberately 
weighing the worth of his words. 

The scrutiny was apparently favorable, for she 
took her hand away saying: “Sit over there, please, 
and I think I will really tell you.” The unemotional, 
practical tone flung Geoffrey back to earth. He 
obeyed her without demur, half-ashamed of his own 
actions, of his own words. 

“Don’t talk to papa about it, please. I did once 
and it only made him miserable. But I’m thinking 
of becoming a Roman Catholic and perhaps as you’re 
one you could tell me how to set about it.” 

“Oh, if that’s all it isn’t very difficult,” said Geof- 
frey, at once relieved and disappointed; “you’re so 
near the Oratory, you have only got to call and ask 
to see one of the priests and he will advise you.” 

“Oh, isn’t there something I could learn alone 
first? Just to see how I got on? Until I make 
quite sure?” 

“Yes, you could read some books, of course. And 
then if you felt like going on with it you could place 
yourself under instruction.” 

“Instruction ! Is there much to learn?” 

“It depends upon what you know already. In 
Malta you must have learned something.” 

“Yes, and when I lived with you.” 

“Did you learn then?” he asked astonished. 
“You were so little.” 

“Julian taught me a lot. Would it take long to 
become one, Geoffrey?” 

“Two or three months.” 


EUNICE 


319 


“As long as that? Is it so difficult?’’ 

“No, but a priest always wants to satisfy himself 
that a person’s in earnest, really has the faith and so 
forth. You’re on trial, you know.” He smiled, 
wondering what was at the back of this wish of hers. 
“Besides, are you sure you’re right in going against 
Colonel Dampier?” 

“He doesn’t like it; but he’s quite ready to let me 
do what I want. He won’t stop me.” 

“You’re so sure, then, that you do want it?” he 
put in abruptly. 

“Perfectly certain,” said Eunice. 

“Then you’d better do what I have just said.” 

She said after a moment’s pause : “I don’t feel as 
if you were encouraging me.” 

“Perhaps I’m thinking too much of your father.” 

“Julian wouldn’t have thought of him. He told 
me once long ago when we were children that to be 
a Catholic was the only thing that really mattered in 
one’s life. And I’m sure he hasn’t changed.” 

“Oh, no, he hasn’t changed about that,” said 
Geoffrey. “But it can’t be because of anything he 
said to you as a child?” 

“I suppose it can’t. But it has been for me a 
comforting phrase to remember, especially when I 
have felt bewildered or uncertain.” 

They were having tea when the door was opened 
once more and the servant announced: “Captain 
Ardley.” 

He came in looking very tall and grim, and blue 
with the cold. “Well, Eunice,” he said, “I’ve come 
to say good-by. Did your father tell you I was 
going oft at the end of the week?” He nodded 
rather cursorily to Geoffrey, who immediately began 
to feel that his presence was not required. 

“Yes, he said something about it,” said Eunice in 
her cool little voice. 


320 


EUNICE 


She gave him some tea and he sat down near the 
fire and rubbed his hands. His face plainly said: 
“There’s that yellow-haired Parmeter boy again I 
What’s he doing here? Why does her father let 
her receive all these people alone?” 

Very soon afterward Geoffrey got up to go. He 
felt injured at having his tete-a-tete disturbed and 
their conversation interrupted. And he felt that he 
disliked Captain Ardley very much. Was he really 
going to marry Eunice? He was miles too old for 
her. 

“I’ll see about those books, Eunice,” said Geoffrey. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

She too made him feel that she did not want him 
to stay now that Ardley had come. What was he 
going to say to her? Was he going to ask her to 
marry him? Why was she so suddenly silent and 
pale when he came into the room? Geoffrey asked 
himself all these unanswerable questions as he 
walked sharply through the Square and turned in the 
direction of the Brompton Road, where the east wind 
met him like a knife. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

G eoffrey was back at Aldershot when he re- 
ceived a little note from Eunice asking him to 
go there on the following Saturday afternoon. 

“I am sorry our conversation was interrupted to- 
day” she wrote, “ but it was Captain Ardley’s fare- 
well visit. As you heard him say, he is going back 
to India very soon. If you can come, do bring the 
books you spoke of.” 

He accepted the invitation with a pleasure that 
robbed him of all the irritation Captain Ardley’s 


EUNICE 


321 


appearance had induced. He looked forward quite 
eagerly to Saturday, it seemed to him that he had 
never felt quite such a strong anticipatory pleasure 
before. He was glad that Eunice had spoken to 
him, although she had made it quite clear she would 
have preferred to speak to Julian. The feeling that 
he was robbing Julian of something that was his by 
right had been a very transitory emotion with Geof- 
frey. He wanted to see her again, and he liked to 
think they were to discuss this intimate personal 
matter together. Geoffrey, it is true, had never 
before discussed his religion with a non-Catholic. 
He was perhaps a little less devout than he had been 
as a boy; the opportunities of being devout were 
more rare when one had definite work to do. But 
if his religion meant less to him than it did to Julian, 
it was still a very important factor in his life. He 
had read about it, was more learned in it even than 
Julian, who loved it with his heart rather than with 
his brain. 

It was raining heavily on Saturday when he ar- 
rived in London, and the wet weather gave him an 
excuse for taking a taxi instead of walking to Onslow 
Square. He thought he had never seen the room 
look so comfortable and attractive, for Eunice had 
shut out all that was disagreeable in the winter’s day. 
There was a glow of firelight and of flowers that 
responded in a bright, rosy manner to the old silk of 
the hangings. Eunice was dressed in a little grey 
woolen frock, and over her shoulders she had thrown 
a stole of white fur which made a delicate contrast 
to the darkness of her hair. She held out her hand 
to Geoffrey. 

“Have you brought the books?” 

“Yes — here they are.” 

He unwrapped a brown paper parcel and gave the 
books to her, one by one. 


322 


EUNICE 


“What a lot,” she said. “Must I read them all?” 

Geoffrey laughed. “I recommend you to study 
one at a time.” 

She turned over the pages. Her remarks were 
characteristic. “Does one really have to believe all 
this? T>o you?” 

She was young in spiritual things. No one had 
taught her anything about them since she had left 
Brighton. To-day she was obviously not in an 
amenable mood. She questioned, argued, debated. 
What was the good of it? Where was the use of 
it ? Why was it all made so hard, so rigid ? “And if 
you don’t believe it I suppose they won’t have you I 
Is that the idea?” she ended by saying in a tone of 
rebellious anger that was almost childish. 

“Yes, that’s the idea,” he assented gravely. 

Eunice relapsed into silence. The hard sayings 
were new to her; she could not in her present 
spiritual infancy receive them. To become a Cath- 
olic was not the easy thing she had supposed. 

“But then you are not obliged — ” he said. 

“I’m not sure that I’m not. I think and think 
about it — it worries me.” 

“You have to pray,” he told her, “to pray for 
faith. There’s hardly a case, I suppose, when God 
hasn’t listened to that prayer.” 

All of a sudden it seemed to Geoffrey of the most 
pressing importance that Eunice should become a 
Catholic, should receive that final spiritual grace to 
crown all those natural gifts and graces with which 
she was endowed. His own faith, his beautiful 
treasured inheritance of Catholicism transmitted 
through so many generations, suddenly became of 
immensely increased importance to himself. And 
he wanted her to share it. 

“I can only tell you this. If you pray for faith, 
God is quite certain to hear you.” He emphasized 


EUNICE 


323 


the words strongly as if to overcome all that was 
weak and vacillating in her. Yet even as he spoke 
he asked himself inwardly: Would Julian have said 
that? What would Julian have said? Something 
profound and convincing in his hesitating, diffident 
utterance ; something perhaps that would have 
touched her heart. 

“You are quite sure?” she said, swayed unwillingly 
by his words. 

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. 

“But you didn’t?” 

“No.” He quoted under his breath: *^But I was 
born free** 

“If I could only feel about it as Julian used to 
feel I He was the most convinced Catholic — I see 
it now — that I’ve ever known.” 

“Have you known many?” 

“A few in Malta. There were children I used to 
play with. But none like Julian— so desperately — 
painfully — in earnest.” 

So there were links surviving still that bound her 
curiously to Julian — indestructible bonds that made 
her still feel differently about him than about any one 
else. 

“I don’t suppose there are many people — outside 
priests, perhaps — who are as keen as Julian,” he 
admitted. 

“I felt sure he couldn’t have changed.” There 
was always that suggestion of reserve, of reticence 
when she spoke of Julian, almost as if she did not 
trust herself to dwell upon him. He began to think 
it was necessary for him to bring about a meeting 
between them; he had been mistaken in thinking he 
could ever take Julian’s place. He could only ap- 
proach her as a new acquaintance, a new friend, with 
the endeavor to destroy anything that still remained 
as disagreeable in her remembrance of him. But 


324 


EUNICE 


with Julian it was different; she kept still something 
of her old, childish feeling for him. When he saw 
him again cwo things might conceivably happen. 
She might be disillusioned by the present-day Julian, 
so ineffective, so much of a dreamer still; or she 
might find her old feeling for him immeasurably 
strengthened. In which case it was possible that 
they would marry. The notion struck him as gro- 
tesque. This gay, modern, lovely young creature 
to marry Julian, a man without any profession, an 
idler, a dreamer I He had never summed up Julian 
with such cruel accuracy before, and the next moment 
he was inwardly accusing himself of a terrible dis- 
loyalty. 

“I see that it isn’t easy for you,” he said at last. 

“But it’s easier for me when I think of all of you. 
Of Julian — your father and mother — a Catholic 
household that I knew so intimately and loved so 
much I” 

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” 

For on looking back there was no doubt that 
Eunice regarded those years at Brighton as the prin- 
cipal formative influence of her life. She realized 
all that she owed to Mr. and Mrs. Parmeter for their 
careful training, and all too that she owed to Julian. 
But to Geoffrey — the first one of them to come back 
into her life — she never had felt that she owed any- 
thing. He had been indifferent to her, going about his 
work, enthusiastic about his games, passing her by 
with scant notice. When they had met again in Lon- 
don all these years afterward she was astonished at his 
eagerness to come to see her, to reap all the benefits 
of an old boy-and-girl friendship. And she had 
learned quickly to like him, to look forward to his 
coming, as to some link of her old life. Colonel 
Dampier had taken a fancy to him, and encouraged 
him to come; he was glad, too, to have an oppor- 


EUNICE 


325 

tunity of repaying something of his old debt to the 
Parmeters for their long sheltering of his child. It 
did not occur to him that of all the family Geoffrey 
had the least claim upon his gratitude. 

There was a stir of voices and footsteps on the 
landing, and Mildred Eliot was announced. She 
came in with a tall, slim, black-eyed child, and rushed 
eagerly up to Eunice. 

“I had to bring Jane,” she said, “she’s just come 
from one of her classes and I promised to fetch her. 
How are you, Geoffrey? I thought you had gone 
back to Aldershot. Oh, Eunice darling — I’ve such 
wonderful news!” 

“What is it?” said Eunice. There was always a^ 
cool little touch of contempt in her attitude toward 
her ancient friend. 

“Gilfrid is coming back — he is in Egypt — he’ll 
be here now in six weeks.” 

“Well, you can hardly expect me to be so wildly 
excited,” said Eunice, “considering I haven’t seen 
him for about seven years. But I’m sure it’s thrill- 
ing for you!” And she looked at Mildred with a 
smile that held something of irony. She was per- 
fectly well aware that Lady Eliot had marked him 
down for Mildred. 

“I should have come earlier if it had not been foi 
Jane.” Mildred went on. “These children ar^ 
such a bore, with their perpetual classes.” 

“You would have interrupted a very important 
conversation I was having with Geoffrey. So it’s 
just as well,” said Eunice. “Well, Jane — what are 
they cramming your head with now, my child?” 

Jane smiled — a broad, humorous, rather charming 
smile. 

“The Art of the Renaissance. I’m reading 
Pater,” she said. 


326 


EUNICE 


She looked admiringly at Eunice, contrasting her 
with Mildred, much to the detriment of her own 
sister. She decided that when she was grown up she 
would do her hair as Eunice did, and cultivate that 
gracefulness of pose. 

“Gilfrid writes that he means to have a regular 
house-warming when he goes to Denscombe. The 
tenants have left and the place is being put in order. 
He wants mother to invite any one she likes. You’ll 
have to come, Eunice!” said Mildred. 

“Shall I?” said Eunice, looking very faintly bored. 
“I’m sure he won’t want me. He has probably for- 
gotten my existence.” 

“We’ve none of us seen him for two years. But 
I’m sure he’s nicer than ever, and you do remember 
how nice he was, don’t you, Eunice?” 

“Indeed I don’t,” said Eunice laughing. “I’ve 
seen such heaps of people since then.” 

Mildred looked disappointed. 

Jane said: 

“I think Mildred’s making a foolish fuss. She 
thinks he’s going to fall in love with her. As if it 
were likely!” 

“Have some more cake, Jane, and don’t be rude 
to your elders,” said Eunice, with raock severity. 

Jane took a piece of cake and subsided. Mildred 
looked a little piqued and vexed. She turned to 
Geoffrey. 

“Doesn’t Julian ever come here?” she asked. 

“He hasn’t been yet. You see he’s at Oxford.” 

“Isn’t it funny that he never comes, when he used 
to be so fond of Eunice?” 

“Well, I think it is, rather,” admitted Geoffrey. 

“And you two used to be always squabbling. 
Don’t you remember?” 

“We’ve found it more convenient to forget it,” 
said Geoffrey good-naturedly. 


EUNICE 


327 

^‘When are you coming to see us, Eunice?” asked 
Mildred. 

‘‘Quite soon,” said Eunice. 

She wanted them to go, but Mildred had immense 
capacities for sitting people out. Soon it would be 
time for Geoffrey to depart and she wished to have 
a few more words with him. 

Jane, who was an enfant terrible and oddly enough 
was encouraged by her mother in the role as some- 
thing quite clever and amusing, said suddenly: 

‘‘Do let’s go home, Mildred. Can’t you see 
Eunice wants to talk to Mr. Parmeter?” She 
slipped down from her seat. 

‘‘If you were my little girl, Jane, you wouldn’t be 
allowed to talk like that.” Eunice’s voice sounded 
quite sharp. “You’d get an extra chapter of Pater.” 

Jane did not look at all abashed. Mildred, how- 
ever, bore her off; but not before Jane had said: 
“Mr. Parmeter’s as bad as Captain Ardley — he 
used to hate us to come when he was here. And 
then he wasn’t nice about it like Mr. Parmeter.” 

When they had gone, Geoffrey burst out laughing. 
“What a terrible child that is. They ought to stop 
her.” 

“Oh, her mother encourages her to say things like 
that. The others — Sara and Susan — are even 
worse.” 

“She made me want to box her ears,” said Geof- 
frey. 

As he said good-by to Eunice she said: 

“You heard what Mildred said? That it was 
odd about Julian. You might ask him — couldn’t 
you? — to come.” 

“Of course I’ll ask him,” said Geoffrey; “he’ll 
help you better than I can.” 

“You think, then, he’ll come?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, I think he is sure to come,” said Geof- 
frey. 


328 


EUNICE 


CHAPTER XXXV 


J ULIAN worked hard that term, but when the sum- 
mer came he failed to pass “Greats.” This 
failure synchronized with the eighth return of his 
novel on its journeys from publisher to publisher. 

have never heard of your father, Mr. Norman 
Parmeter,” said the enclosed typewritten letter, “and 
in any case we do not think his reputation would be 
sufficient to awaken any extraordinary interest in 
your novel. While we consider it most promising 
as a first work, we regret that we do not see our way 
to 



through London; 


they had not seen each other since the Christmas 
holidays. 

“I want you to come to see Eunice with me,” he 
said as they met on the platform at Paddington. 

“Oh, no — not to-day,” said Julian nervously. He 
looked so wretched at the proposal that Geoffrey 
could only suppose he was suffering from one of his 
attacks of nerves. “I’ve been ploughed again,” he 
went on hurriedly, “you heard, I suppose? I shall 
never take my degree.” 

“Eunice won’t care about that. You needn’t tell 
her, in fact,” said Geoffrey. 

“There are other things. I think I’ll go straight 
home now,” said Julian. 

He was almost afraid that Geoffrey might insist 
upon taking him off there and then to Onslow Square. 
And he felt as if his recent failure must stare out of 
his very eyes. 

“She wants to talk to you about religion,” con- 
tinued Geoffrey. “I gave her some books a few 
months ago, but she doesn’t seem to have read them 
much. You see, she goes out such a lot. But I 
think in her heart she wants to be a Catholic.” 


EUNICE 


329 


“Some day Til go to see her,” said Julian, a little 
stubbornly. If she were to see him to-day, de- 
pressed by his unsuccess, he felt that she must cer- 
tainly despise him. 

“She’s beginning to think it queer of you,” said 
Geoffrey. 

He was a little annoyed at Julian’s obstinacy, for 
which there seemed to be no adequate reason. 

“You must tell her it isn’t because I don’t want to 
see her very much indeed,” said Julian hastily. 

“Well, you’re certainly shown her you weren’t in 
any hurry,” said Geoffrey, in his light, cutting way. 

“She’ll understand.” 

They drove away in a taxi together. On the way 
to Victoria Geoffrey said: 

“We’re all going down to Denscombe on Saturday 
for Gilfrid Eliot’s housewarming. He’s been away 
traveling for about two years and the place has been 
let up to now. Lady Eliot invited most of the 
people — Eunice is to be there and the Eliots and 
myself. She asked me if I thought you’d care to 
come.” 

Julian laughed nervously. 

“I hope you told her what a hermit I am,” he said. 

“Why don’t you come, Ju?” Geoffrey looked at 
his brother curiously and wondered why he cared so 
little for society — even for the society of charming, 
agreeable people. 

“I should hate it,” said Julian, with a dull finality 
in his tone. 

“You’re getting more and more misanthropic,” 
mocked Geoffrey. 

Julian said nothing, but his dark eyes looked out 
of the cab-window and rested on the delicate emerald 
tints that decorated the blackened branches of the 
trees in the park. People were walking there — 
women in light summer dresses looking like moving 


330 


EUNICE 


flowers, white-frocked children, men in London garb. 
He wondered if Eunice were among those idly wan- 
dering groups. 

“It would be strange if she became a Catholic,’’ 
he murmured. “I wonder what made her think of 
it?” 

“She attributes it, I think, to her early life with 
us,” said Geoffrey. “But if you refuse to help 
her — ” He stopped short, exasperated. 

“I’ll help her when the time comes,” said Julian 
cryptically. 

“Aren’t you curious to see her again? She’s 
awfully pretty, you know,” said Geoffrey. “Lots 
of people admire her very much.” 

“She could never be anything but very pretty,” 
said Julian. 

They parted at Victoria. “I’ll come down per- 
haps the week after next and tell you about Dens- 
combe,” said Geoffrey. 

As he walked away he felt that he had never had 
so unsatisfactory an interview with Julian. One 
could do simply nothing with him — nothing! He 
lived in a small, narrow world of his own — a world 
of dreams. He even pitied him a little, because he 
felt that when Eunice saw him again she would most 
certainly be disillusioned. 

“I believe he’s afraid to see her,” he thought to 
himself. He wondered what possible excuse he 
could make to Eunice. She would be hurt when she 
heard that Julian had actually passed through 
London and had refused to come. She would cer- 
tainly attribute it to indifference, if not to actual 
dislike. 

He did not see her again until they met at Dens- 
combe on the evening of their arrival. It was a 
great house of cream-colored stucco with a castel- 
lated roof that made people always allude to it 


EUNICE 


331 


locally as “The Castle.” But though it was un- 
lovely in itself it was extremely beautiful and com- 
fortable within, and it was situated in the midst of a 
lovely undulating English park that stretched away 
into deep pine-woods, with here and there tracts of 
gorse and heather. 

Geoffrey arrived just as tea had been brought out 
onto the south terrace. Lady Eliot, in pink muslin, 
was doing the honors. Gilfrid was sitting by 
Eunice’s side and from time to time exchanging 
scraps of cousinly persiflage with Mildred. At a 
little distance a heated-looking group of people were 
playing lawn-tennis. 

Geoffrey was immensely interested in seeing Gil- 
frid again. • He was still very good-looking, almost 
better looking than he had been as a boy. He 
looked older than his twenty-four years, and his face 
was bronzed with traveling and exposure. But he 
had enjoyed nothing so much of it all as this return 
to take possession of his own property. 

“Glad to see you, Parmeter,” he said with a 
friendly smile ; “sorry Julian couldn’t come too. I’d 
like him to have seen the library here.” 

Lady Eliot smiled approvingly upon her young 
relation. She expected great things from this visit. 
Mildred was looking charming to-day; she was one 
of those pale, rather pasty-faced girls who always 
look their best in light summer clothes. Lady Eliot 
had been careful to select those exact pastel shades 
which should improve her daughter’s worst point — 
her complexion. Mildred’s hair was fair, neither 
flaxen nor brown, and she had not a great deal of it, 
but the maid was a clever coiffeuse and knew how to 
make the most of it. She was looking quite her best 
to-day, very animated and pleased with things in 
general. Denscombe had made a profound im- 
pression upon her and she felt she would like to rule 


332 


EUNICE 


over this important house. In the great trunks now 
on their way from the station there were quantities 
of fresh frocks to flatter her youthful good looks. 
Lady Eliot knew that her daughter was not star- 
tlingly pretty, but she had nice blue eyes and a pretty, 
neat figure. She was the type, too, that the average 
young Englishman chooses for his wife. Mildred 
was perfectly well aware that her mother intended 
her to marry Gilfrid, and she was on her side ready 
to fall in with these views. If she had not been, the 
sight of the castle would have converted her. It 
would “do” very well. She was glad to see that 
Geoffrey was showing an incipient interest in Eunice ; 
that would clear the field of a possibly dangerous 
rival. Lady Eliot was as blind as she had always 
been to Eunice Dampier’s charm; she didn’t admire 
her herself and could not imagine that any one else 
would. Mildred in this respect was wiser than her 
mother. She saw in Geoffrey Parmeter a very 
useful auxiliary. 

From the first moment, however, of their stay at 
Denscombe Lady Eliot’s plan went awry, although 
it had been laid with all the skill of which an intel- 
ligent woman of the world with a marriageable 
daughter is capable. Gilfrid was the weak point in 
the attack. He was the Horse that could not even 
be Led to the Water. Effort was arbitrarily 
checked from the outset, for his attentions were from 
that first afternoon bestowed upon Eunice Dampier. 
Geoffrey was shunted to one side; he had none of 
those opportunities for conversation with her that 
he had hoped for. Lady Eliot could no longer blind 
herself. It was her own fault for inviting Eunice. 
Gilfrid hadn’t seemed especially keen; when it was 
proposed he had only said: “By all means let Miss 
Dampier come. If it won’t bore her too much to hear 
me make a speech.” And Lady Eliot had thought 


EUNICE 


333 


— foolishly, as it now seemed — that Eunice would 
make a useful foil. She was too unusual to attract 
Gilfrid, who liked more conventional girls who could 
play tennis and golf. Eunice was too fanciful a 
picture. 

But it was rather hard, all things considered, that 
Eunice should without visible effort slip into that 
place which should have been Mildred’s. Under 
the circumstances Lady Eliot could hardly blame her 
daughter for embarking upon a perfectly senseless 
flirtation with Captain Grimble, a polo-playing 
officer, who came over from Aldershot, which was at 
no great distance from Denscombe. It was a matter 
for thanksgiving that Mildred shouldn’t show her 
disappointment in true Victorian manner; still, her 
counter-move lacked subtlety, and Lady Eliot felt 
bound to remonstrate with her for her late walks by 
moonlight in the woods. 

“It’s all right — he’s engaged,” said Mildred 
cheerfully. (If she had said “married” her mother 
could scarcely have been more shocked.) “Such an 
ugly girl, too, and years older than he is. He 
showed me her photograph. But she’s got pots of 
money and he’s head over ears in debt. Is Eunice 
engaged to Gilfrid?” 

“I hope not, indeed,” said Lady Eliot, in a tone 
of simulated dismay. 

Mildred raised her eyebrows. “Why shouldn’t 
she be?” 

“He must do better than that. Eunice hasn’t a 
penny. And then — her mother ” 

“What’s her mother got to do with it, if he likes 
her?” 

“Men don’t generally care to marry into a family 
where there’s been such a scandal,” said Lady Eliot. 

“I don’t see why he should mind about that stuffy 


334 EUNICE 

old story. And I’m sure he Isn’t the kind that 
would.” 

Lady Eliot resolved to have a little talk with 
Gilfrid, such as his dear mother, a long-deceased 
lady, might have had, had she been still alive. Just 
a hint. In case he didn’t know, and before he had 
gone too far to be able to extricate himself honor- 
ably. She was always a little baffled now when she 
had an intimate talk with her daughter, whose 
standards were now so surprisingly different from 
her own. She who had been still young and daring 
in the early nineties felt that a girl who was twenty- 
one in the first decade of the twentieth century sur- 
passed all her own wildest dreams of the remotely 
permissable. She hoped that Gilfrid would prove 
more amenable to her point of view. 

As she sat there one morning at the window of 
her own sitting-room she saw Eunice and Geoffrey 
pass together across the south terrace. Their two 
tall, white-clad figures made brilliant patches in the 
sunlight. Why couldn’t Eunice content herself with 
Geoffrey? Why must she, so to speak, rush In to 
destroy Mildred’s chance of making a good mar- 
riage? She would have been still more mystified 
had she been able to overhear the substance of the 
conversation between Eunice and Geoffrey. 

“Do you really mean,” she was saying, “that he 
actually refused to come?” 

“Well, I suppose that’s what It amounted to,” 
confessed Geoffrey unwillingly; “he wasn’t in the 
mood, evidently — he was a bit hard-hit at getting 
ploughed again.” 

“You did tell him though how really anxious I was 
to see him?” 

“Yes — and I told him why.” 

She looked puzzled and disappointed. “I’m afraid 


EUNICE 


335 

he’s quite forgotten me,” she said, “and I made so 
sure that Julian would never forget.” 

“Oh, indeed he hasn’t forgotten,” Geoffrey was 
eager to explain; “he said something about your 
understanding.” 

“And that’s just what I can’t do. I wish he’d 
come to explain. I feel as if in some way I had 
offended him.” 

“I can only suggest that you should come down to 
see us when you go back to town,” he said. 

“But don’t you see how quite impossible that 
would be?” she said. “While I’ m so uncertain if 
he’s really offended or not.” 

He longed to say to her bluntly: “He’s not worth 
your bothering about.” But he had still an instinc- 
tive loyalty that prevented him from denigrating his 
brother to other people. Yet he had never come 
so near to despising Julian for a useless and in- 
vertebrate creature as he had during that last drive 
together. His nervous refusal to see Eunice had 
been the culminating point to all his miserable weak- 
ness. 

“Does it matter so much?” he couldn’t help say- 
ing. It was a source of wonder that Eunice could 
think twice about so unimportant a thing. It was so 
obvious to every one at Denscombe that Gilfrid was 
in love with her, and that if she chose she could 
marry him. From a worldly point of view wasn’t it 
the best thing that could happen to her? He longed 
to ask her about it, but he did not dare. This was 
almost the first opportunity he had had of talking to 
her alone, and her thoughts were strangely occupied 
with Julian and his odd refusal to come to see her. 

“It matters because I feel that there must be some- 
thing behind it all — something I don’t understand.” 

“I told him you wanted his help about becoming 
a Catholic,” he ventured to say. “Unless you have 


EUNICE 


336 

given up that idea?” He had a sudden conviction 
that Gilfrid, young, rich, and with so much to 
bestow, would scarcely be likely to choose a Catholic 
wife, nor listen patiently to any talk of conversion. 

“Oh, you told him that too?” she said coloring. 
“I should think that would have made him come.” 

“Well, you see, it didn’t,” said Geoffrey. “I’m 
sorry — but I don’t understand him either. He’s got 
some motive, only we can’t discover it. Except that 
he was awfully disappointed at not passing and said 
he was certain he should never take his degree.” 

While this conversation was in progress. Lady 
Eliot had seized upon Gilfrid whom she had met in 
the hall looking busy and preoccupied. He was 
going to have an interview with his agent; had 
promised later to play croquet with Eunice, so he was 
scarcely in the mood for a heart-to-heart talk with 
Lady Eliot. 

Although she saw his disinclination she held firm 
to her resolve. Things were going at too formid- 
able a pace to allow of any procrastination on her 
part. Her ancient authority triumphed, and he came 
unwillingly to her sitting-room, where they were not 
likely to be disturbed. 

“I’ve been wanting an opportunity, dear Gilfrid, 
to discuss things with you.” 

“We must make it a very short discussion, I’m 
afraid,” he said good-humoredly, “for I’ve two 
appointments — important ones — during the next 
hour.” 

“Ah, you’re finding out what it is to be a man 
of property,” she said smiling. 

“Yes, but I’m liking it enormously,” he told her. 
He sat down opposite to her and the light fell on his 
handsome sunburned face. “Now, dear Aunt Vera, 
do tell me what’s been happening?” 

“I promise not to keep you long. I only wanted 


EUNICE 


337 


to say a few words about Eunice Dampier. Dear 
child, she has just gone off so happily for a walk with 
Geoffrey Parmeterl” 

“Oh, has she?” he said, and his face fell a little. 
“She won’t be gone too long, I hope, for one of my 
appointments is with her — ^I’ve challenged her to a 
match at croquet.” 

“I’m sure she will be back in good time. But, of 
course, that’s a very old friendship — with the Par- 
meters, I mean.” 

“I thought Julian was her pal more than Geof- 
frey,” said Gilfrid. 

“Ah, that was in the old days. Geoffrey is much 
the nicer now — a very popular, brilliant young man 
— a great favorite of Colonel Dampier’s.” 

She could see by his face that he didn’t like the 
turn the conversation had taken, and she went on 
softly : 

“I’m telling you this, dear Gilfrid, because — well, 
I had a little fear that you were falling in love with 
her yourself.” 

“I am not falling in love with her,” said Gilfrid, 
in a steady voice. 

She looked immensely relieved. “I’m delighted 
to hear that. You see she’s a very charming girl* 
and I can’t forget I’m really responsible for bringing 
her here. But in your position — your great posi- 
tion — ” she glanced significantly toward the park, as 
if it were in some way mysteriously connected with 
his matrimonial responsibilities, “you can’t be too 
careful.” She fixed her large black eyes upon him, 
but he met the look squarely. 

“I am very careful. And do you mind being a 
little more explicit please. Aunt Vera?” 

He spoke very politely, but she felt that the tone 
was hindering to further explanations. 

“I mean — it’s possible you know that Eunice may 


EUNICE 


33B 

misconstrue your attentions. Especially, as you say, 
you don’t mean to marry her.” 

In a moment she became aware that she had 
damaged her cause by a false move. 

“But you must be dreaming,” said Gilfrid. “I 
never said such a thing in my life !” 

“You assured me you were not falling in love with 
her. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” 

Gilfrid was silent. His face was very expression- 
less. He said at last: 

“Is it?” 

“Well, I mean much the same thing. I want to 
see you happily married to some woman who will 
understand you; it’s one of the dreams of my life. 
But not — certainly not — to Eunice Dampier.” 

“And why not?” His smile was disconcertingly 
brilliant; “why not to Eunice?” 

“Well, she hasn’t got a penny, of course — ^but that 
is a detail.” 

“I have surely enough for two,” he said. “I 
shall never begin to get through my income unless I 
have some one to help me. I’ve appallingly few 
extravagant tastes.” 

“Of course, I see her being penniless would hardly 
be an obstacle, though I’m always sorry for a girl 
who depends upon her husband for every sixpence 
she spends. You’re so extraordinarily fortunate in 
having all this in your own hands at your age. But 
the real objection of course with regard to poor 
Eunice is her mother.” 

“Her mother?” he said. “I didn’t know she had 
one. I imagined Colonel Dampier was a widower. 
Isn’t her mother dead?” 

“You’ve forgotten about the divorce?” said Lady 
Eliot, rejoiced to see that her words were taking 
effect at last. “It happened just at the time we were 


EUNICE 


339 


all in Brighton. Let me see — Eunice is twenty now 
—she was fourteen when it happened. Mrs. Dam- 
pier married Sir Chandos Mirton very soon after- 
ward. One never hears much about her now except 
that they don’t get on at all.” 

“Sir Chandos Mirton,” he repeated, in dismayed 
tones. “Are you sure about this. Aunt Vera?” 

Lady Eliot nodded an affirmative. She had 
scored her second point and felt secretly triumphant. 
She could see Eunice’s chances dwindling away to 
nothing. Her mother’s identity had visibly shocked 
Gilfrid Eliot. 

“Why? Do you know him?” she asked. 

“I know his sons. Two of them were at Oxford 
with me, and Dicky Mirton — the eldest of them — 
is a friend of mine. He — he simply hates his step- 
mother; they were very angry when their father 
married her.” 

His face was sullen and clouded; all the bright 
look had gone out of it. Lady Eliot was not sorry; 
she was thinking: “This can’t hurt him. Later, if 
he’d found out, it would have meant real suffering.” 

“You understand now,” she said gently, “why I’m 
so thankful to know there’s nothing between you and 
poor little Eunice.” 

Gilfrid did not exhibit any signs of sharing her 
thankfulness. The blow had been a rough one, and 
how was he to explain to his aunt that his answer 
just now had been an equivocal one when he had 
assured her he was not falling in love with Eunice, 
for the simple reason that he had already done so. 
For the last twenty-four hours, so rapid had the 
process been with him, he had been making up his 
mind to put his fortune to the supreme test and invite 
her to marry him. But he was not sure of her. 
There was that frank friendship of hers with Geof- 
frey Parmeter which took him back to the gay, noisy. 


340 


EUNICE 


quarreling days at Brighton. She could not know 
enough of him to care for him yet. Her very friend- 
liness — of a different quality from that which she 
showed to Geoffrey — her lack of self consciousness, 
were miles away from the first embarrassments of a 
dawning passion. He was angry with Lady Eliot 
because she had ever so slightly succeeded in smudg- 
ing his idol. Not that it really mattered, not that it 
would make, in the long run, any difference at all. 
Eunice was wonderfully untouched by these dismal 
family happenings; fortunately she had been too 
young at the time to grasp their significance. He 
only shrank from the thought of having his wife for- 
ever labeled as Lady Mirton’s daughter. Her step- 
sons cordially, implacably, hated her, and had not 
hidden from him how miserable she made their 
father and their home by her bitter tongue and evil 
temper. Hints of more degrading habits had also 
been casually dropped. Not one of Sir Chandos’s 
three sons would spend an hour under his roof if 
they could help it; they preferred to see their father 
elsewhere. Sir Chandos spent a good deal of time 
in solitary traveling; he haunted continental water- 
ing-places in the summer and gay southern cities in 
the winter. He had learned to hate the woman for 
whom he had sacrificed so much of his honor. 

All this Gilfrid knew, and he wondered why it had 
never reached his ears that this Lady Mirton was the 
divorced wife of Colonel Dampier. He shouldn’t 
in that case have encouraged Lady Eliot to bring 
Eunice down to Denscombe, for the simple reason 
that up to the very last moment he had fully expected 
Dicky Mirton to form one of the party. It was an 
everlasting reason for congratulation that he hadn’t 
been able to come. 

The lamentable connection that existed between 
this woman and Eunice pierced his pride as if with 


EUNICE 


341 

an arrow. But something stronger than pride forced 
him to say now : 

‘‘I am really awfully interested in what you tell 
me. You see, I’d made up my mind to marry Eunice 
— if she will have me.” 

“But my dear Gilfrid — you positively assured 
me ” she began. 

“I’m sorry I misled you. If I told you I wasn’t 
falling in love with her it was because I have already 
done so very completely indeed. I haven’t dared 
speak to her yet — I’ve been afraid to put my luck to 
the test. It’s such a big thing, isn’t it? You see 
everything’s gone so tremendously well with me up 
till now — perhaps Dame Fortune will think it’s 
about time to show me the other side of her face I” 

“Let me give you a word of advice, Gilfrid. Wait 
a few weeks before you speak to her — think it over 
very seriously. Don’t try to see her in the mean- 
while. It is, I am sure, nothing but a very natural, 
passing fascination. All young men go through in- 
fatuations of the kind.” 

“Are you suggesting I’m suffering from calf-love. 
Aunt Vera?” he inquired, with a bright, amused 
look. 

“Oh, no, dear Gilfrid; you are too wise, too well- 
balanced. I never think of you as a boy. But I^ 
feel that you are exaggerating Eunice’s charm. 
Many people don’t admire her at all.” 

“Don’t they? They must be jolly blind, then,” 
he said, good-humoredly. 

“You see. I’ve always felt that having such a 
mother must certainly stand in the way of the poor 
child’s making a decent marriage. Now Julian Par- 
meter’s just the kind of dreamy, quixotic boy who 
would not mind. And they’ve got some money — both 
those boys. I’ve sometimes thought perhaps later on 
— when he was older — he’d want her to be a 


342 


EUNICE 


Catholic; but Eunice has always had leanings. I 
cured her of quite a bad attack of Roman fever 
when she was a little girl.” 

“That was very kind of you. Not that I’ve any 
prejudices, but I couldn’t be a Catholic myself, so I 
shouldn’t like my wife to be one. You did me *a‘ 
good turn. Aunt Vera.” 

She passed over this flippancy without comment. 
“Her early training was all in favor of her ’verting. 
You never know when influences of that kind may 
crop up again.” 

“Oh, if she really wanted it I” he said cheerfully. 
“I’d give her the moon if I could. But I don’t like 
that idea of yours about Julian Parmeter. I’m al- 
most sure she told me that she hadn’t seen him since 
she was a child. I remember thinking him a bit of a 
freak the only time I saw him. Geoffrey’s a very 
decent sort. I’ve been, to tell you the truth, a little 
bit afraid of Geoffrey.” 

She wished she could have agreed with him that 
there was anything to fear from Geoffrey. 

Gilfrid had forgotten his agent, who was even 
now waiting for him and wondering bitterly at the 
unpunctuality of youth; he had indeed forgotten 
everything except Eunice and his own hopes and 
fears. He wanted to go to her that instant, as he 
expressed it in his own thoughts, and ask her to 
marry him. He was getting over the shock of 
knowing her to be Lady Mirton’s daughter. For a 
few minutes it had been a “nasty jar.” He rose. 

“Well, wish me luck. Aunt Vera I I think I’ll 
put off my agent till a more convenient season.” 

She shook her head. “Think over what I’ve said. 
Be prudent, Gilfrid. You are too young to make a 
mistake that may affect your whole life.” 

Gilfrid made a tiny grimace as he went out and 
shut the door. 


EUNICE 


343 


He went off to his study, and sent the man. away 
with an injunction to come to-morrow instead. 
Then he sat down and began to think things out. 
Of course, all he had learned from his aunt could not 
fail to affect him. He must make it clear beforehand 
that he couldn’t have Lady Mirton “chipping in” to 
their lives, supposing Eunice agreed to marry him. 
Mother and daughter must be kept apart. He 
must find out if they ever saw each other now, 
privately, secretly, so that the world shouldn’t know. 
He hoped not. He hoped that Eunice’s life was 
quite free from muddy influences. She had been so 
little with her mother as a child. Why, she was still 
very young when he had seen her in Brighton first, 
living with the Parmeters — excellent, worthy, con- 
scientious people. No sign of any parents then, 
though she talked sometimes, he could remember, of 
her father with a glowing affection. He had heard 
Lady Eliot say that the Dampiers were in India and 
that the Parmeters had taken charge of Eunice, no 
one quite knew why. But she was happy with them, 
they were extremely kind and treated her like their 
own child. “But, then, no doubt,” she would even 
then add mysteriously, “they want to Get Hold of 
her ultimately!” This phrase puzzled him at first, 
until he got Mildred to explain it, when he dis- 
covered she had been alluding to a conspiracy on 
their part to capture her, a new victim, for the in- 
satiable Roman Catholic Church, with its ceaseless 
Empire over the souls of men. And now Lady 
Eliot had just informed him that Eunice had had — 
certainly when she was a child, and perhaps even 
now — “leanings.’^ Well, if he gained her love — 
and he was as hopeful as most young men with great 
possessions as to this — he felt he could easily divert 
her mind from so undesirable an orientation. But 
her mother — he sincerely hoped there would be no 


344 


EUNICE 


difficulties there. As long as there was no communi- 
cation, no correspondence, he felt capable of remov- 
ing her forever from any fear of such influence. Lady 
Eliot had been a little malignant in planting these 
two obstacles before his enamored eyes, in an effort 
to detach him which he still believed to be quite dis- 
interested. She had failed, for he was already too 
deeply in love to withdraw without a pain that would 
darken his whole life. But she had shown him pre- 
cisely where danger lay. Not such very formidable 
dangers, after all, even with regard to her mother. 
There could not be any love lost between Lady 
Mirton and Eunice. He rose at last, and looking 
out of the window saw two white-clad figures coming 
toward the house. They were Eunice and Geof- 
frey returning from their walk. He watched with 
great content her light, graceful way of walking, the 
dainty freshness of her clothes. He said to himself 
in a tone that was brightly hopeful and entirely free 
from misgiving: 

“It seems the sooner I speak the better I” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

G ILFRID did not find it altogether easy to speak to 
Eunice during the hours that followed upon his 
high resolve. Lady Eliot had a vigilant eye, and 
Captain Grimble having departed she imposed upon 
Mildred the task of keeping as much with Eunice as 
she could. Between them they made it almost im- 
possible for him to take her away to some remote 
spot in the garden and there pour out his hopes and 
fears. To force the situation was not an alternative 
that pleased him; he felt that he might do it at an 
unpropitious moment, when she would be little likely 
to listen. If he played croquet with her Mildred was 


EUNICE 


345 


certain to be hovering about, giving humorous advice 
that he felt to be irrelevant. But on the following 
day a change came over the condition of things in 
general at Denscombe. A heat wave set in that 
owed its origin, so the press informed him, to Amer- 
ica. The hour of siesta was meticulously observed, 
as in Eunice’s experience it was only observed in 
India and Malta during the hot weather, when it 
became a tyrannous rite that enfolded the whole 
world for at least two hours in the afternoon. After 
tea there were languid attempts to play tennis and 
croquet, but most people preferred to go for a drive 
in one of Gilfrid’s fast new motors. In the evening 
everyone played bridge, and it was more than ever 
difficult to detach both himself and Eunice from one 
of those interminable rubbers. 

He did at last achieve it under the very eye of 
Lady Eliot, one evening when the moon had risen 
above the pine-trees, painting the whole scene a dark 
rich blue, and lighting up a sky in which few stars 
were as yet visible. It was when they had all settled 
down to their game, with the addition of two young 
officers — who had been invited to dinner with secret 
purpose — that Gilfrid asked Eunice to go for a walk 
down to the lake with him. He did it with a sense 
of seizing opportunity clumsily by her fragile wings, 
but truth to tell he found the delay and incertitude 
every hour more insupportable. He had arranged 
the tables without even asking her if she wished to 
play, and Lady Eliot, perceiving the manoeuvre, had 
resisted with a final attempt to defeat him. “Oh, 
do let Eunice take my place!” she implored; “she’s 
a much better player, and then she’s so keen 
about it.” 

“Miss Dampier can play presently,” said Gilfrid. 

Eunice was standing at a little distance from the 
others, and he now went up to her. She was wear- 


EUNICE 


346 

ing white, and her dress, at once narrow and loose- 
fitting, disclosed a slim silhouette full of a lissom 
grace that gave, through all her quiet movements, a 
suggestion of wildness, of power. 

“Come for a walk,” he said, going up to her; “it’s 
frightfully hot in here.” 

“Which way shall we go?” said Eunice. 

“Oh, down to the lake — there’s always a breeze 
off the water. You are not afraid of the damp?” 
with a glance at her thin shoes, her uncovered dark 
head. 

“It can’t be damp,” she said smiling. 

They walked across the terrace and through the 
rose-garden, where drooping heavy clusters of blos- 
som gave forth a faint evening incense. The long 
path, arched by a pergola of Dorothy Perkins now 
in the height of its beauty, seemed mysteriously pale 
as they passed along it. Gilfrid opened a gate at the 
bottom of the garden with a key, and in a moment 
they had crossed a path into the pine-wood that 
dipped to the lake. The trees almost met above 
their heads, shutting out all but a mere streak of that 
pale, moon-washed sky. Yet the moonlight man- 
aged to trickle through the boughs and filled the 
place with fugitive lights and shadows, milk-pale 
and ebony-black. 

They descended by a narrow path imperfectly 
delineated, and came suddenly upon an open space in 
the trees that disclosed a full view of the lake lying 
like a pallid silver shield with black shadows under 
the moon. There was a seat by the boat-house, and 
he led her up to it. A little breeze, timid and cool, 
blew off the water, and added another allurement to 
the summer night, diminishing its hot and breathless 
stillness. 

“You see — want to know if you’ll marry me,” 
said Gilfrid, and as he uttered the words they lost 


EUNICE 


347 


all surprise for Eunice, who felt that he had brought 
her here to this remote spot on purpose to say them. 

She was silent and he went on speaking, gaining 
courage as he proceeded. 

“I love you so very much, Eunice. Of course, you 
must think it’s awfully sudden and all that. I know 
you can’t care for me in the same way. . . But you’ve 
seen the place, and I wish you could feel as I do that 
we might make a charming life here.” He glanced 
at her wistfully; she all at once seemed so very far 
away, a remote, sphinx-like figure of whom he knew 
so little. “But don’t be in a hurry — I know I’ve been 
clumsy, springing it on you like this. Only you will 
think about it, won’t you?” 

Eunice turned and looked at him. In the wan 
moonlight her face was very pale, but the eyes were 
dark and burning. 

“Do you know — about my mother?” she asked. 

“Yes — yes. At least, I know that she’s Lady 
Mirton now. We needn’t let that fact disturb us.” 
He could not be too thankful that Lady Eliot had 
imparted this sinister information to him. Eunice 
would not have to witness his first discomfiture at 
that horrid surprise. 

“And in spite of this you want to marry me?” she 
said. 

“I only wish I could tell you how much!” he 
answered. 

“Do you know that even when I was a little girl 
I couldn’t be entrusted to her care?” 

“I didn’t know, but I must have guessed it. You 
see, you were always living with the Parmeters. I’m 
glad to think now that she had so little — at any time 
— to do with you.” 

“Still, I am her daughter,” said Eunice in a low, 
gpiet tone. 

“Dear, what does it matter? She has gone out 


EUNICE 


348 

of your life, I hope forever. But you mustn’t think 
I’m acting in ignorance — I know Dicky Mirton — the 
eldest son — quite well.” 

“Oh,” said Eunice, looking relieved. 

Th-en suddenly, almost inconsequently, her 
thoughts flew back to Brighton days — to the Par- 
meters. The old links had been revived and 
strengthened of late by Geoffrey’s frequent visits. 
She had not seen Julian, but she had heard of him; 
he had become a real, not a shadowy, figure to her 
through all that his brother had carelessly revealed 
of him. And she was aware that if this marriage 
did take place, with all its brilliant possibilities, it 
would cut her life in two. The future would stand 
in no relation to the past at all, to all those influences 
that had so surely gone to the making of her. She 
would be taken away into quite a new sphere. 
Gilfrid could give her practically everything. She 
liked him and more than ever at that moment she 
felt the glamour of his personality, his power, his 
attraction, even his tenderness. Yet something held 
her back as if with strong hands — the remembrance, 
shadowy, imperfect, but very enduring, of Julian 
Parmeter. The memory of his strange interior life, 
into which she alone perhaps of all the world had 
been permitted to gaze. . . As Gilfrid’s wife she 
could never take up those old threads. And yet, 
was it not true that Julian had refused to go to see 
her? He had never sought to revive that old inti- 
macy; he seemed to shrink from seeing her again. 
Only the other day he had been in London, scarcely 
more than a mile away from her home, yet he had 
persistently refused all Geoffrey’s requests that they 
should call upon her. It was Julian, not she, who 
had determined this continuance of their separation. 
He had shown her that she had no place now in his 
life. Even for old comradeship’s sake he might 


EUNICE 


349 

have gone once to see her. Her pride had suffered 
under that blow. . . 

Gilfrid bent toward her and took her hand in 
his. He was aware that some struggle was taking 
place within her. Love gives such swift, inexplicable 
intuitions. It made him afraid to speak, as if a word 
from him might sway the balance not in his favor. . . 

Beyond, on the opposite shore of the lake, which 
was long and narrow in shape, the trees came down 
to the edge of the bank and their reflections were 
lost in the black water. He heard the sudden rough 
plunge of a water-rat, followed by the half-muffled, 
startled cry of a wild-fowl disturbed by the sound. 
These little, half-stifled noises scarcely diminished 
the intensity of the silence that reigned there. He 
found himself longing for Eunice to speak. 

“I don’t think I can give you an answer to-night,” 
she said. 

A chill of disappointment came over him. He 
had made sure that before they returned to the 
house they would have indeed plighted their troth, 
exchanged perhaps those first kisses of love that 
could make the world a new, shining place. 

She stirred as if she were going to rise and move 
away. His hand increased its pressure upon hers, 
as if to detain her. He said imploringly: 

“Don’t go yet please, Eunice. Tell me — can’t 
you? — what’s making you hesitate?” 

Ah, that was something that must never be told ! 
. . . The very fact of putting it into words must 
surcharge it with all that was ridiculous, impracti- 
cable, absurd! 

“Is it that you don’t think you can care for me?” 
he asked humbly. 

“No, it isn’t that. I do care — but perhaps not 
enough.” She looked at him with dark, questioning 
eyes. In the moonlight his face was almost beauti- 


350 


EUNICE 


ful, with its fine brow, the thick brown hair, the large 
eyes set well apart and filled with an eager, intelligent 
look. Half an hour ago the thought that he might 
be in love with her had never entered her mind. He 
had never singled her out for any special attention— 
Lady Eliot had indeed been too vigilant to permit 
of that — but he had been ceaselessly solicitous that 
she should never for a moment feel bored or out of 
it among his old friends and near relations. 

“If you care at all, that’s enough for me,” he said, 
quick to take advantage of even this timid admission. 

She said: “You see, it would mean leaving my 
father. I must think of him.” 

“You could see him often. He must come when- 
ever he likes. We’ll rig up some rooms for him that 
he can look upon as his own. He wouldn’t surely 
stand in your way?” 

“No — not if he thought that my happiness de- 
pended upon it.” 

“You see, I want it to depend upon it!” he assured 
her eagerly. He lifted her hand and raised it to 
his lips. It was almost like an act of homage. 
“Eunice, dear,” his voice was not quite steady, “I 
love you very much. More than I can tell you.” 
His eyes were fixed upon her face, so marble-pale 
in the moonlight. Something in her expression — 
a softening, a relenting, gave him sudden courage. 
He drew her close to him and kissed her. Her head 
rested for a second upon his shoulder. And curiously 
she saw herself back in the old school-room, sitting 
beside Julian in the twilight just after her fierce 
squabble with Geoffrey. Only then she had been 
soothed and quieted. Now the touch of Gilfrid held 
something at once beautiful and tormenting, and 
awakened within her a strange, unaccustomed excite- 
ment. She felt a little out of herself, as the 
French say. The witchery of the moonlight, the 


EUNICE 


35 


mysterious darkness of the woods that surrounded 
them, the pallid, shining lake, seemed to combine 
with the words of love she had just been called upon 
to hear, to lift her into a new world of sensation 
and experience. She seemed to have passed through 
a door that led from her old life into scenes of 
deadly enchantment, shutting out all that was past, 
whether of good or ill. She could almost hear the 
clang of its closing, chilling the glamour of her new, 
passionate adventure. But his kiss strangely thrilled 
her. 

“You must love me,” he said; “you must marry 
me.” 

“Yes,” said Eunice. 

It was late when they walked back to the house, 
and the terrace was in darkness as they approached 
it, except for an oblong patch in front of the drawing- 
room window, which had been left open. Gilfrid 
half hoped that his guests had retired, perhaps 
guessing the errand which had taken him away 
from them for the whole evening. 

Eunice walked by his side, shivering a little in 
spite of the windless warmth of the night. She was 
saying to herself: “I have been dreaming. It can’t 
be true that I am really engaged.” Yet Gilfrid, 
with his new little air of triumph, seemed to give 
the lie to these mental asseverations. She could 
only hope that Lady Eliot had gone to bed. She 
felt that the affair would not meet with her approval, 
and she did not want — late as it was and exhausted 
as she now knew herself to be — to encounter those 
inquiring, experienced eyes. She was disinclined to 
explain exactly how matters stood. First her father 
must be told, and she inwardly resolved to return 
home as early as possible on the following day. 
She couldn’t live through so intimate a period as the 


352 


EUNICE 


first days of her engagement anywhere but in her 
own home, where at least she could know seclusion. 
She wanted dreadfully a little breathing-space, 
where even Gilfrid couldn’t disturb her with won- 
derful words and still more wonderful kisses. 

Lady Eliot, however, had deemed it her duty, 
as chaperon of the party, to sit up for their return. 
Really, a few words of admonition would not be 
out of place. . . It was late, and Gilfrid should 
have known better than to stay out to such an hour 
alone with Eunice in the woods. She was standing 
by the window as they came up, having heard the 
sound of their approaching footsteps. 

“My dear Eunice — I began to be afraid that you 
were lost I Do you know it’s after half-past eleven ?” 

“We lost count of time,” said Gilfrid cheerily. 
“You see, we’d got such tremendously important 
things to say to each other, Aunt Vera.” 

He followed Eunice through the window into the 
now deserted drawing-room. “It must be a secret 
until we have told Colonel Dampier, but I want you 
to know that we’re engaged to be married 1” 

“I congratulate you both,” said Lady Eliot, in 
a cold, steady voice; “but you shall tell me all about 
it to-morrow. I must insist upon Eunice going up to 
bed. I am sure her feet must be damp, and it is 
getting quite chilly. I hope you will not suffer for 
your imprudence, my dear.” 

Eunice felt chilled almost to silence by the words. 
Imprudent? Had she been imprudent? She felt 
dazed. . . Not unhappy, not even excited now, but 
stupefied. She couldn’t believe that she was engaged 
to Gilfrid. Why — they hardly knew each other I 
“Good-night, Lady Eliot. Good-night — Gilfrid.” 
To both of them she held out her hand. Then she 
went slowly out of the room, almost with a drooping 
look, as if some strength had gone out of her. 

Lady Eliot sat veiy upright upon a high hard 


EUNICE 


353 


settee, and Gilfrid, lighting a cigarette, stood by the 
open window. 

“My dear boy. I’m afraid you’ve been dread- 
fully precipitate. Is it really quite settled?” 

“I suppose so,” said Gilfrid, laughing in a boyish, 
half-embarrassed way. “I asked her to be my wife 
and she said she would. Not at first, you know. It 
took me quite a little time to persuade her. I think 
it was a bit of a surprise to her.” 

“No doubt,” said Lady Eliot dryly. “I hope you 
made it quite plain that she was never to have any- 
thing to do with that disreputable mother of hers?” 

“Oh, no, I didn’t make any conditions. I was 
only too thankful that she didn’t refuse me off-hand. 
For you know, my dear aunt, I am not in the least 
degree worthy of Eunice I” 

“You are unnecessarily humble,” she said iron- 
ically. “You forget your great possessions, and 
Eunice won’t have a penny. . . And a very unpleas- 
ant episode in the family. You must not let the 
glamour of your — infatuation blind you to these 
very real disadvantages.” 

“I am not going to let them affect me at all,” said 
Gilfrid, with a quick touch of anger; “if I can only 
marry Eunice I shan’t care who her father was nor 
what her mother did. I shan’t want to make any 
conditions. It’s she, I expect, who’ll make all the 
conditions!” 

He looked so brilliantly alive and happy as he 
spoke that even Lady Eliot renounced the attempt 
to discourage him. 

“Well, good-night, my dear boy. You’ve made 
your own choice and I’m sure I hope you will be 
very happy.” 

She shook hands with him and went out of the 
room, wondering whether it would be advisable to 
speak to Eunice. 


354 


EUNICE 

CHAPTER XXXVII 


E unice went home on the following morning. 

When the car came round to the door she found 
not only Gilfrid hut Geoffrey waiting for her in the 
hall. Geoffrey, it was explained, was to return to 
London by the same train as herself, and Gilfrid 
was only to accompany them as far as the station. 
It was a bore, he said, but he could not leave his 
guests without all sorts of explanations which for 
the present he wasn’t permitted to give. He would 
follow as soon as possible to have the necessary 
interview with Colonel Dampier. 

In reality, he was a little vexed at her immediate 
departure; he would like to have had a few more 
days of delicious secret betrothal at Denscombe, with 
moonlight strolls under the pines. But Eunice was 
quite firm about the necessity of going back to her 
father at once. 

Now she was in the train sitting opposite to 
Geoffrey, whose suspicions were already strongly 
aroused. There had been something a little intimate 
and possessive about Gilfrid’s manner to her as he 
took leave of her. He looked, too, extraordinarily 
happy, and his eyes were on fire with a kind of 
ardent intelligence. Eunice, on the contrary, was 
very cool and composed, and betrayed no emotion. 
She was able to realize this morning something of 
the tremendous importance of the step she had 
taken, and Lady Eliot had had a few words with 
her that had considerably damped her spirits. But 
on the whole she was happy and satisfied, and could 
look forward to the future with serenity. Every- 
thing would be “all right” ; she would have a settled, 
ordered life that appealed to her after the wander- 
ing, military existence of her youth. And she liked 
Gilfrid well enough to contemplate putting her future 
into his hands without any grave misgiving. 


EUNICE 


35S 

She had seen him under circumstances that threw 
his young figure into strong relief, as a little prince 
in his own beautiful home, surrounded by admiring 
friends and conspiring mothers, and thus his impor- 
tance had been slightly exaggerated. But when all 
was said and done he was certainly very rich, though 
that formed to her perhaps the least part of his 
attraction. He was frank, manly, high-principled, 
full of solicitude for her, flatteringly in love and 
eager for their marriage to take place with as little 
delay as possible. She felt that she had little to 
learn about him, and in all this there seemed to be 
no room for any kind of misgiving. Yet all the time, 
in the unexplored recesses of her mind, she was con- 
scious of an undefined little pain that seemed ready 
to leap out and tell her that she should have waited 
to examine her own heart before becoming engaged 
SO swiftly to Gilfrid Eliot. 

Now, with Geoffrey Parmeter sitting there in 
front of her that curious discomfort asserted itself 
and would not be denied. Geoffrey’s very presence 
stimulated it, for did he not stand vicariously for 
that old life upon which she had last night closed 
the door ? And whatever of enchantment, of ecstasy, 
of thrilling happiness and success might lie before 
her on the path she had after all deliberately chosen, 
she was aware — terribly aware — that she had shut 
the door upon other things of true and satisfying 
worth. They lay in dim shadow, half-forgotten or 
at least imperfectly remembered, unilluminated by 
gold or glitter, but they were there, and assuredly 
they would now be lost to her. She found herself 
staring helplessly at Geoffrey till he, suddenly per- 
ceiving it, flung down the paper he was reading and 
exclaimed : 

“I say, is anything wrong? You look so awfully 
white? Can I do anything?” 


356 


EUNICE 


She forced a smile. 

“No, Fm perfectly well. Perhaps if you opened 
that window — yes, that’s better.” 

The blood came back slowly to her face. With 
a desperate determination to burn her boats she said : 

“Have you guessed anything, Geoffrey?” 

He looked at her in frank surprise. 

“Guessed anything? Why, what do you mean?” 
He stopped short and reddened. “Do you mean 
about you and Eliot?” 

“Yes. We are engaged.” 

He looked at her attentively. 

“I thought somehow he was falling in love with 
you. Mildred put me up to the notion. But some- 
how I never thought — ” He paused, and as Eunice 
did not try to help him he blurted out: “Somehow 
I never thought you’d marry 

“Why not? Every one will say Fm making a 
brilliant marriage. He could have married almost 
any one and he’s chosen poor little Eunice 
Dampierl” Her tone held a kind of sad irony. 

“But you — you never seemed ambitious,” said 
Geoffrey. 

“Oh, but you mustn’t think Fm doing it for a 
low motive — like ambition.” She was hurt, and 
showed it. Why couldn’t Geoffrey give her at least 
the credit for caring honestly for the man she was 
going to marry? 

“I beg your pardon — I didn’t quite mean that. 
But it’ll take you,” and here he hit the truth in a 
blind, brutal way that showed at least he could have 
no conception of the accuracy of his aim, “so far 
away from us all — for all we stood for.” 

“He was there, too, in the Brighton days,” she 
argued hotly. 

“Oh, yes, he was there — as an outsider. He was 
too big and grand for us even then.” 


EUNICE 


357 


“But you do think he’s awfully nice? You do 
like him, Geoffrey?” 

“Yes, I think him a jolly good sort, and he’s a 
fine sportsman. I’d think almost any girl but you 
the luckiest girl in the world to get him.” 

“But why not me?” she said, flushed and almost 
tearful. 

“Because you don’t seem to fit, somehow.” 

“That’s perfectly absurd. You’re only saying 
that because you knew me as a little girl. I’m quite 
different now. I’m grown up and I’ve had expe- 
rience of the world.” 

Geoffrey shook his head. “I can’t explain,” he 
said. “But somehow it seems all wrong.” 

“Julian wouldn’t have said so. He always under- 
stood.” It was the first time she had had the courage 
to introduce Julian’s name into the conversation. 

“Julian? You can know nothing about him if you 
say a thing like that. He’s always been soft about 
you.” 

“Soft about me? What do you mean?” Her 
dark, troubled eyes pleaded for an explanation. 
She felt her heart beat with almost sickening force. 

“Well, you surely can’t have forgotten what an 
idiot he was about you always!” 

“Six years ago. He doesn’t know me now — I’ve 
not seen him I” 

“You are still his ideal,” said Geoffrey gravely. 
“I’m quite certain of that, though he never talks 
about it. He hardly mentions your name. One can 
only guess, remembering that for years he loved 
you as if you were his own sister, only a thousand 
times more than most brothers love their sisters.” 

Eunice was very white ; she listened to his words, 
unwilling to believe them, yet convinced of their 
truth. Geoffrey’s energetic assertions were shatter- 
ing her new-found dreams. 


358 


EUNICE 


“Then you must tell him my secret,” she said with 
an effort; “I’d rather he weren’t kept in ignorance 
if — if, as you seem to believe, he still thinks kindly 
of me.” 

“Very well. I’ll tell him,” said Geoffrey gravely. 
Even then he was thinking: “How can I tell him? 
How dare I tell him?” 

“You must say that I’m very happy — and that 
we shall be married soon. Gilfrid doesn’t want to 
wait.” 

Surely the boats were burning steadily now? . . . 

“All right,” said Geoffrey with a touch of irony. 
“Anything else?” 

His bitter incredulity stirred her to self-defence. 

“Yes — tell him I’m not marrying Gilfrid for 
motives of ambition, although you’ve as good as 
said so!” 

There was a manifestation here of the old pas- 
sionate Eunice. Her eyes were blazing with splen- 
did fire. 

“I never said such a thing,” declared Geoffrey, 
imperturbably. 

They were silent until the train reached the grey 
turmoil of Waterloo Junction. Then suddenly, as 
they were both employed in collecting their things, 
he felt a hand laid lightly upon his shoulder. “Do 
forgive me, Geoffrey,” she said penitently; “you 
must think me horrid. And I do so want to be 
quite happy to-day.” 

“Of course you do.” He looked at her kindly. 
“I was a bit rough, I suppose. You must forget 
what I said — and believe I was only thinking of 
Julian.” He took her hand awkwardly. 

“But why must you think of Julian?” she asked. 

“It was stupid of me,” he admitted. 

“Say nice things about me to Julian, please,” she 
said. 


EUNICE 


359 


He saw her safely into a taxi, her luggage piled 
on the top, and her face, pale but smiling, looking 
at him through the window. 

“It’s my fault,” he murmured as he drove off 
to Victoria on his way to Brighton, “I ought to have 
made him go to see her. I ought to have insisted 
upon their meeting. I suppose now she’ll give up 
thinking about becoming a Catholic.” That link 
with the past would be severed in common with all 
the rest. “If they’d only seen each other again this 
fool thing wouldn’t have happened. She can’t really 
care for Eliot.” 

But did she? She had tried to make him believe 
that she did. She had evidently wished him to per- 
suade Julian of this fact. And how could he do 
that, armed with such slender knowledge — such 
imperfect conviction? He was sorry for Julian, and 
yet he was angry with him and told himself that if 
Julian were hurt it was entirely his own fault. 

There was something inexplicable and ambiguous 
about Eunice. It couldn’t mean that she was still 
thinking of this friend — this brother — of her child- 
hood when she had just engaged herself to Gilfrid 
Eliot? Yet why had she looked so white and 
troubled when he had reminded her of Julian’s 
ancient devotion? 

The Parmeters were at dinner when Geoffrey 
began to speak of his visit to Denscombe. He had 
come home in an unusually quiet and subdued mood 
and had less to say than he generally had on his 
return. 

“Was Eunice there?” said Mrs. Parmeter. “You 
said you expected she would go.” 

“Yes, she was there,” said Geoffrey. 

“Did you have any talks with her? How is she 
getting on with her instruction?” asked Mrs. 
Parmeter. 


36 o 


EUNICE 


“I imagine she’s given up that idea,” said Geoffrey 
dryly; “her visit to Denscombe was a very impor- 
tant event for her.” 

“Why, what do you mean?” asked his mother. 

“I mean that she’s engaged to Gilfrid Eliot,” he 
answered. 

There was a dead silence, broken only by the loud 
ticking of the clock. Julian’s face was white and 
set as a stone mask. He did not look up. For the 
second time Geoffrey had flicked at his house of 
cards with careless, intruding finger. But this time 
it was all his life that had fallen upon ruin. His 
was the extreme of loss, such as the lover feels 
when he hears of the sudden death of his beloved. 
Now he would never see her again, upon that he 
was resolved. He did not want to think of her as 
she was now; he felt he would prefer to remember 
her as he had last seen her, with tossed hair, and 
face all soft with the sea wind, as she had appeared 
that day on board the Channel steamer. Not as 
Mrs. Gilfrid Eliot — that was a stranger with whom 
he had no concern. He would not look, he told 
himself with inward passion, upon that dead face. 

“I’m sure that she had no idea of it when she 
went down there,” continued Geoffrey, speaking 
more from a desire to break the appalling silence 
that had fallen upon them than from any wish to 
give further details of the happenings at Denscombe. 
“Lady Eliot isn’t too pleased, I believe — at least 
Mildred told me she was trying to stop anything 
of the kind.” 

“Poor little Eunice,” said Mrs. Parmeter, who 
often thought of her still as the little child she had 
befriended. 

“No one need ever call her that again,” said 
Geoffrey. “She’ll be very rich little Eunice. Dens- 
combe is a charming property, though I am sure 


EUNICE 


361 

from what she said that didn’t weigh with her at all.” 

“I hope she will be very happy,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. 

“She’ll have a great deal to make her so,” said 
Geoffrey. 

Julian listened to their conversation like one in 
a dream. Were they really talking about Eunice? 
Was it quite true she was going to marry Eliot? 
Something of the old jealousy he had felt for that 
bright, handsome, spoiled boy stirred anew in his 
heart. He remembered that summer when the hol- 
idays had been completely ruined for him by his 
presence. He remembered bitterly that Gilfrid had 
once called him a freak. There seemed to him now 
something prophetic in that ancient jealousy of his 
for Eliot. He had felt in those days with every 
nerve the elder boy’s contempt for his own inactive, 
unsporting existence. And now Gilfrid was going 
to marry Eunice. She could never be a Catholic 
now, and in that impossibility lay a sharper pang 
than all the rest. He had wanted those spiritual 
gifts for Eunice; he had never forgotten to pray 
that she might receive them. And from what 
Geoffrey had told him in the spring he had believed 
that she was drawing near to them. 

Oh, there had been so many things to hold him 
back, yet how trivial, how unnecessary th^ seemed 
to him now in the face of this disaster. There had 
been his profound conviction that he ought not yet 
by any word to try to influence her — he who had 
always had a certain influence over her in those 
matters. It mustn’t be for any feeling she might 
have or might revive for him, that she should be 
led to seek out the truth. And above all while she 
was still so young and knew so little of the world, 
he must not take advantage of that old friendship 
to renew it on the only lines it could ever be renewed. 


EUNICE 


362 

But always in his heart he had been profoundly 
convinced of two things — that Eunice would become 
a Catholic and that in the future she would be his 
wife. 

But Gilfrid had stepped in — he could see him 
doing it, lightly, carelessly, scarcely realizing what 
a prize he had won — and had demolished that dual 
dream. He was going to marry Eunice. 

He had reached this point in his thoughts when 
he heard his mother say: 

“Are they going to be married soon?” 

And Geoffrey’s answer scarcely surprised him, 
scarcely added anything to the extremity of his suf- 
fering: 

“Yes, quite soon, I believe. She told me Gilfrid 
didn’t want to wait.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

C OLONEL Dampier looked across the table at 
his daughter. Luncheon was nearly over; the 
servants had left the room, and he was listening 
attentively to the momentous announcement of her 
engagement to Gilfrid Eliot. Although he had felt 
that some such results might come from her visit, 
since he always dreaded to hear the news that she 
was going to leave him, when the time came he was 
taken completely by surprise. He had always 
known that some day she would certainly marry, 
and he wouldn’t have liked her to miss that happi- 
ness, and sometimes it had occurred to him to 
wonder upon whom her choice would ultimately 
fall. It was by no means the first offer she had 
received, since only last spring she had definitely 
refused to marry Captain Ardley, who had taken 


EUNICE 


363 

his rejection in a somewhat bitter spirit. Now the 
time had come, and if she was taking the whole 
thing rather more calmly than he had expected she 
would, that did not for him argue any lack of affec- 
tion for Gilfrid; it meant perhaps that she was 
conscious of the seriousness of the step thus con- 
templated, and so was not approaching it with mere 
careless enthusiasm for its novelty. 

The connection was a promising one. He had 
known Lac^ Eliot for many years, and, though she 
had failed Eunice at one of the most crucial moments 
of her life, he had been able to forgive her, and 
had resumed the friendship on its old lines when he 
found himself a near neighbor in London. Through 
her he could learn all that he desired to know about 
Gilfrid. 

“You do approve, don’t you papa?” she said. 
“Of course, you don’t know him yet, but I’m sure 
you’ll like him. And he doesn’t want us to be sep- 
arated in the least — he hopes you’ll stay with us as 
often as you like. You’re to have your own rooms 
at Denscombe, to run down whenever you can. 
That’ll be perfect, won’t it?” 

“I’m sure I shall like him very much,” said Colo- 
nel Dampier; “the very fact that he’s Alaric Eliot’s 
nephew is greatly in his favor. I feel I shan’t be 
giving you up to people of whom I know very little. 
But — did you,” here he hesitated, “did you mention 
your mother to him, my dear?” 

It was very seldom that Colonel Dampier ever 
mentioned his wife, and he asked her the question 
now with a certain timidity. 

“Yes, I asked him if he knew about her. And he 
did — he’s a friend of Sir Chandos’s eldest son.” 

Colonel Dampier looked relieved. Gilfrid was 
evidently aware of the family skeleton, and had 
asked Eunice to marry him with his eyes open. 


3^4 


EUNICE 


“Fm so glad you were frank with him.” 

“Oh, I felt I couldn’t let him get engaged to me 
until he knew that,” said Eunice; “but as a matter 
of fact it didn’t seem to make any difference. And 
he was so nice about you, papa, so anxious for you 
to know you wouldn’t lose me completely.” 

The Colonel beamed. He liked to be considered. 

“Still, he means to rob me of my little girl,” he 
said, and his voice was very kind. 

Eunice bestowed upon her parent a bright, affec- 
tionate look. 

“He doesn’t know what a lot he’ll have to make 
up for. I shall lose so much!” 

“You mustn’t think of that. You’ll gain a great 
deal, too.” 

“Yes, he’s very rich,” she admitted. “You don’t 
think me worldly and ambitious, do you, papa ?” 

“I?” He looked at her in amazement. “Why, 
how could I think that? I know you too well to 
imagine you didn’t care for him when you promised 
so quickly to be his wife.” 

It took the sting from the remembrance of 
Geoffrey’s blunt words. But even now she did not 
understand herself for promising so quickly, as her 
father had expressed it, to be Gilfrid’s wife. She 
had been taken unawares; his love had influenced 
her powerfully. Now, in a colder, calmer moment, 
she questioned her own heart. 

“It’s odd,” she said suddenly, “but I had up till 
now really serious thoughts of becoming a Catholic. 
I’ve had it in my head for a long time. I got 
Geoffrey Parmeter to bring me some books, and I 
had been studying them carefully. I didn’t want 
to tell you till I was quite sure. But now I must 
give that up. I’ve a kind of idea Gilfrid wouldn’t 
like it.” 

Colonel Dampier looked intensely relieved. 


EUNICE 365 

“I can’t say that I should have liked it either,” he 
said. 

“But you wouldn’t have tried to prevent me? 
You said so once yourself — the only time I talked 
to you about it.” 

“No, I shouldn’t have prevented you. I’ve always 
spoiled you, Eunice, given you all you wanted — to 
make up, perhaps, for the things you’d lost.” 

“Then you don’t think I put my hand to the 
plough and then turned back?” 

“I don’t think you’d got quite to the point of 
touching the plough. You were contemplating it, 
so to speak, from a respectful distance!” 

They both laughed. It was Eunice’s turn to be 
relieved. Colonel Dampier was not perhaps the 
best judge of a spiritual difficulty; he was very 
simple about his own religion, very upright and hon- 
orable in his dealings with other men. It had never 
occurred to him that there had been any serious 
purpose in his young daughter’s “dabblings” in 
Catholicism. 

“Did Parmeter encourage the idea?” he inquired. 

“Up to a certain point. But, you see, Geoffrey 
was never quite like Julian — he never had the same 
passion for his religion.” 

“Well, my dear, if you had decided to become a 
Catholic I should only have had myself to blame 
for leaving you all those years with the Parmeters.” 
His face broke into a smile. “But I’m glad young 
Eliot has driven that particular obsession out of your 
mind. Did you settle at all when the wedding’s 
to be?” 

“He wants to be married soon. Before the 
autumn,” said Eunice. 

“Well, I must have a talk with him. He mustn’t 
expect to have everything his own way.” 

Before they left the dining-room he took Eunice 


EUNICE 


366 

in his arms and kissed her in his fond, indulgent 
way. Yes, she was very beautiful, this cherished 
child of his. And she was looking especially beauti- 
ful to-day in her new happiness. Was this man really 
good enough for her? Would he understand her? 
She could never be moulded to a precise pattern. 

“Young Parmeter wasn’t in love with you?” he 
hazarded. 

She flushed up to her forehead. “Oh, do you 
mean Geoffrey?” she said, after a moment’s terror, 
lest he should have divined something that was kept 
with such jealous secrecy in her own heart. “No, I’m 
sure he wasn’t. We never got on well even as chil- 
dren.” 

“Ah, yes, it was the other one who was your 
friend. But he never comes here, does he?” 

“No, never,” said Eunice. 

When her father had gone into his study she went 
upstairs and wrote a letter to Gilfrid. She glanced 
once or twice at the clock. Yes, Geoffrey would be 
nearing Brighton now. Perhaps already Julian 
knew of her approaching marriage. 

But it was much better that he should know as 
soon as possible. 

Presently she went to a shelf and took down the 
books that Geoffrey had given her. Half regret- 
fully she glanced at them and then put them away in 
a drawer, which she locked. Now all that part of 
her life was over and done with. What she had 
said to her father was true, that Gilfrid would have 
a lot to make up for; it was true in more ways 
than one. But could he ever heal that little hurt 
to her soul which had suddenly become magnified to 
such immense proportions? Could he ever make 
up to her for that? And what shall a man receive 
in exchange for his soul? . . . Was some thought of 
this kind in Geoffrey’s mind when he spoke so 
roughly in the train to-day, almost as if she had out- 


EUNICE 


367 

raged some ideal he had formed of her? What 
would Julian think? But she had deliberately shut 
Julian out of her life forever. 

On the subject of her love for Gilfrid she had 
few questions to ask herself. She was quite sure 
that she didn’t love him as people love in books, 
in a manner that seemed to render them hideously 
uncomfortable. She had no wish to experience feel- 
ings so violent as to destroy her peace of mind and 
upset her balance. But she was sensible of a certain 
emotion when she was with him ; she felt to the full 
the influence of his personality, a thing that seemed 
to her beautiful and vital and yet in a sense torment- 
ing, promising happiness of a thrilling and exciting 
rather than of a calm, ordered kind. If anything 
had for a moment held her back, it was the remem- 
brance of Julian Parmeter, with whom as a child 
she had experienced a very different sense of com- 
plete well-being that enfolded and soothed her. In 
those old days it had made her feel as if only Julian 
perfectly understood her. His childish love for her 
had been all the more wonderful because of, or per- 
haps in spite of, that deep understanding. He had 
known all that was bad in her; her imperious, way- 
ward temper; her frequent fits of passion and 
mutiny; the unkind words she had dealt out to him 
with even greater frequency than she had done to 
Geoffrey. Looking back upon her life with the 
Parmeters she saw now what an upsetting factor 
she must have been in that regular, tranquil house- 
hold. That no one had ever been harsh or unkind 
to her — that no one had ever complained of her— 
had since taught her more than anything of the 
measure of their deep devotional spirit, which im- 
bued them all with such sound and practical charity. 

Gilfrid was to come up in two days’ time, when 
the last of his guests would have left Denscombe. 
The respite was welcome to Eunice, who always 


EUNICE 


368 

preferred to have time to think things well over. 
And it would give Colonel Dampier a little longer 
to get thoroughly accustomed to the idea. But the 
path of the lovers promised to run with exemplary 
smoothness. There was nothing to delay nor to 
obstruct the marriage. It could take place as soon 
as Eunice chose. She wasn’t likely, her father 
thought, to wish for a very long engagernent. They 
had, to use a hackneyed phrase, “nothing to wait 
for.” 

On the whole. Colonel Dampier was satisfied. He 
had always wanted his daughter to marry, but until 
now he had, curiously enough, never envisaged the 
change it was likely to produce in his own life. An 
empty house to come back to — that sounded a little 
dreary. Only he wouldn’t want this great house 
any more ; a bachelor flat in some mansions, prefer- 
ably near Victoria Street, one that boasted a res- 
taurant, so that he wouldn’t have to grapple daily 
with a cook. . . He had his work and it was increas- 
ing; he had hardly time as it was to write his private 
letters. 

Two days later he came back in the evening to 
find Gilfrid Eliot in the drawing-room with Eunice. 
The young man’s frank, pleasant manner struck him 
agreeably. His physiognomy was all in his favor. 
Tall, broad-shouldered, he had a well-poised head 
on a slim, long neck, very thick hair of a pale 
brown shade, brown eyes set far apart under much 
darker brows, that gave character and emphasis to 
his face. Eunice was looking charming, calm, pale, 
with a very soft light in her eyes. She looked 
radiantly dark beside Gilfrid. They were well 
matched in height; she came nearly up to his chin. 

“Gilfrid is going to stay with us for a few days,” 
she said tranquilly, “so you will have lots of time 
to talk things over.” She smiled at the two men, 


EUNICE 


369 

as if already full of confidence in their mutual friend- 
ship, their ability to arrange everything that con- 
cerned her own future. 

“Fm glad to hear that,” said the Colonel, fixing 
his melancholy eyes upon young Eliot. “We can 
begin this evening. Eunice must spare you for half 
an hour after dinner.” 

The meal passed off without incident. Domestic 
matters ran smoothly in the Dampier household. 
Eunice had studied her father’s likes and dislikes 
with careful attention; her first care was to please 
him. She was more at her ease than either of them; 
she did most of the talking, and it seemed to be her 
special intention to bring these two men into a 
greater intimacy. They must like each other; they 
must be friends; so much of her happiness would 
depend upon that. She couldn’t shut her father out 
of that new life that was to be hers; on the con- 
trary, he must be made to feel that he occupied a 
place in it of unalterable importance. The contrast 
between them struck her forcibly. There was her 
father, growing old now, though his face under the 
thick white hair bore so few signs of age, a man 
who had worked hard nearly all his life and had 
risen in his profession by dint of strenuous endeavor, 
and who was now enjoying the fruits of it. And 
on the other hand, there was Gilfrid, who had no 
need to work at all, who had been left heir when 
still very young to Denscombe and a huge rent-roll, 
able to satisfy every whim, even this final whim of 
marrying herself. 

In the study after dinner Gilfrid found Colonel 
Dampier amenable to all his own projects as to the 
suggested settlements and the early date of the 
marriage. The settlements he proposed to make 
were indeed generous beyond all Colonel Dampier’s 
very unworldly dreams, and he for the first time 


370 


EUNICE 


realized the importance of this brilliant marriage 
his child was going to make. He had, it is true, 
missed something of enthusiasm in Eunice’s manner 
when she first told him of her engagement — an 
absence not only of sentimentality but of any senti- 
ment at all. Perhaps modern girls were like that, 
and in any case Eunice rarely showed her feelings ; 
she was the last person to wear her heart upon her 
sleeve. He must be satisfied that she liked Gilfrid 
well enough not only to marry him but to become 
engaged to him after a very brief resumption of 
their old acquaintanceship. Her only sense of 
regret seemed to center around that odd fact that 
she must for the future repress those religious ques- 
tionings of hers. He wasn’t on the whole sorry for 
this. She had been too much alone, was inclined 
perhaps to introspection; a husband and children 
would doubtless cure all that. He was sufficiently 
old-fashioned to hold that matrimony supplied a 
wholesome and abundant panacea for any lurking 
feminine vagaries. The trouble with Eunice was 
that she was so mature for her years; there was 
nothing of the careless joy of youth about her. 

It seemed to him that Gilfrid was voicing his own 
unspoken thoughts when he said suddenly : 

“And there’s one thing I hope you won’t mind 
my mentioning.” 

“That means,” said the colonel dryly, “that you 
are pretty sure I shall mind.” 

The skeleton in the Dampier cupboard had been 
too largely advertised in the press of six years ago 
to terrify him with any recrudescent rattling of 
bones. He looked kindly at the young man, who 
still hesitated. 

“You want to ask me something perhaps about 
her mother — about Lady Mirton?” 


EUNICE 


371 


“Yes,” said Eliot flushing. 

“Eunice tells me that you know Mirton’s sons?” 

“Yes, they were at Oxford with me.” 

“I imagine there’s not much love lost,” said the 
colonel. 

“None at all. And it’s partly on account of my 
friendship for Dicky Mirton as well as for her own 
sake that I don’t want Eunice and her mother to 
meet after we are married.” 

“There’s not the slightest reason why they should. 
Mirton put his foot down, too, after the marriage — 
forbade any communication with the child. As far 
as I can see, neither Eunice nor her mother wish to 
resume any intercourse.” 

Eliot looked immensely relieved. “I’m delighted 
to hear it,” he said. “I thought I should like to have 
that point made quite clear, if possible, without hurt- 
ing Eunice’s feelings in any way. You’ll under- 
stand, I’m sure, why I shouldn’t like her, as my wife, 
to come under Lady Mirton’s influence.” 

“I think you’re perfectly right. I’ll support you 
in this with my whole heart. But, as I tell you, I 
don’t anticipate the slightest diflEiculty.” 

“Thank you very much.” 

“Look here, Eliot — I believe in people being quite 
frank with each other. I should tell Eunice what 
you wish, if I were you.” 

“Oh, will that be necessary?” 

“Not necessary at all, but I think advisable.” 

“And there’s another thing.” 

Colonel Dampier raised his eyebrows. “What 
can that be?” he asked. 

“I know that as a child Eunice was left a great 
deal with the Parmeters — a Roman Catholic family 
at Brighton. I know them slightly, and Geoffrey 
was staying with me last week. You’ve no reason 


372 EUNICE 

to suppose that Eunice has any idea of becoming 
a Roman Catholic?” 

“She’s had leanings, I believe — many girls have. 
There’s a glamour about the whole thing that I 
should have thought specially attractive to women 
if I hadn’t known so many hard-headed men succumb 
to it too. She won’t have so much time to worry 
over religious problems when she’s married. And 
she was such a child when she was in Brighton, the 
impressions and influences she received there weren’t 
likely to be very lasting ones.” 

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” said Gilfrid, 
looking relieved. “I shouldn’t have liked it if she 
had wanted to change. It would have made com- 
plications and difficulties. I shouldn’t have tried to 
stop her; but, as I say, I shouldn’t have liked it. 

“That was just my own feeling,” said Colonel 
Dampier. 

Gilfrid was glad he had had the courage to ap- 
proach the colonel on these two points. He was 
considerably relieved by the assurances he had 
received that Lady Mirton was little likely to intrude 
her disagreeable and dubious personality into their 
married life. And Eunice’s engagement to himself 
had probably checked any latent leanings in her 
toward Catholicism. He felt amply reassured on 
both these knotty points, and he began to feel that 
Lady Eliot had deliberately made mountains out of 
innocent molehills. She hadn’t, for some inscruta- 
ble reason, approved of his projected marriage; and 
perhaps that was the reason why she had magnified 
these two difficulties. 

He felt he had made a valuable auxiliary for the 
future in the person of Eunice’s father, who seemed 
to see eye to eye with him on both the points so elo- 
quently presented by Lady Eliot. 


EUNICE 


373 


CHAPTER XXXIX 

E verything was proceeding with exemplary 
smoothness as regards trousseau and settle- 
ments and all the preparations for the marriage, 
when the news of the death of Sir Chandos Mirton 
from heart-disease was announced to an indifferent 
world in the London papers during the progress of 
a mid-August heat-wave. By an odd coincidence, 
the ^ragraph appeared on the very day on which 
the Eliot-Dampier engagement was announced as 
follows : 

“A marriage has been arranged and will take 
place on September 12th between Gilfrid, only son 
of the late Henry Gilfrid Eliot, of Denscombe Park, 
Surrey; and Eunice, only child of Colonel Herbert 
Dampier, C.B., of 200 Onslow Square, S. W.” 

Even Gilfrid, who was not at all a morbid or 
superstitious person, discovered a sinister omen in 
seeing this public avowal of his happiness in juxta- 
position to that brief paragr^h announcing Sir 
Chandos’s death at his place in Gloucestershire. He 
was down at Denscombe at the time, for Eunice, 
exhausted by the heat in London, had pleaded for a 
little solitude in which to complete her own personal 
preparations. Gilfrid had at first shown some impa- 
tience at the suggestion that he should leave town. 

“But, darling, what do you want with all these 
frocks? Get them afterward.” 

“It isn’t only frocks. It’s all kinds of things,” 
said Eunice. 

She was having breakfast in bed when the paper 
was brought up to her. The news of Sir Chandos’s 
death gave her a little shock, and all the time she 
was dressing, her thoughts were uncomfortably pre- 
occupied with her mother’s bereavement. She knew 
nothing of her, had never even heard whether she 


374 


EUNICE 


was happy or not, nor if she regretted the step she 
had taken. But it was easy to imagine that what- 
ever her personal happiness had been — and there 
was little reason for Eunice to suppose any diminu- 
tion or lack of devotion on Sir Chandos’s part — her 
life at Daunton could not have been all plain sailing. 
She had had from the beginning the open hostility 
and dislike of her husband’s three sons to contend 
with. From the little Gilfrid had told her it seemed 
that time had rather increased than diminished that 
avowed hostility. They had adored their own 
mother and had bitterly resented their father’s sec- 
ond marriage to a divorced woman. Eunice was 
driven to wonder — always with a little secret fear — 
whether this death would make a very great differ- 
ence to her mother’s circumstances. It was certain 
that she would have to leave Daunton, for the eldest 
son, Dicky, would now succeed to the property, and 
it was extremely improbable that he would permit 
his stepmother to remain in the house a day longer 
than was absolutely necessary. 

The thought of her mother’s future perplexed 
Eunice, and filled her with a certain nebulous anxiety, 
as if she were afraid that it might conceivably affect 
her own. A foreboding, that was not unconnected 
with Gilfrid’s eager demands that she and her 
mother should have no intercourse in the future, 
began to harass her. He had by his time made his 
wishes on the subject quite clear to her, in accord- 
ance with the advice offered by Colonel Dampier. 
It had taken a little courage; he was afraid of ob- 
truding any manifestation of his own will upon her, 
and when the thing was done it was a relief to find 
she had been in perfect agreement with him. It was 
only a continuation of her father’s policy, and per- 
haps she welcomed it for this reason. Her loyalty 
to her father had always been of too fine a quality 


EUNICE 


375 


to permit of any compromise where Lady Mirton 
was concerned. Nor had the voice of authority in 
this man who was so soon to be her husband been 
disagreeable to her. She liked Gilfrid more and 
more every day; she looked forward with eagerness 
to his visits; there was an increasing sympathy be- 
tween them, and she was beginning to think with 
pleasure of that ordered, settled existence at Dens- 
combe which was so soon to be hers. She would 
never in those days envisage the fact that there was 
anything missing to that happiness of hers. 

Now suddenly the whole position was changed. 
It was conceivable that Lady Mirton, freed from 
the authority of Sir Chandos, might take steps to 
approach her daughter. This danger presented 
itself not only to Eunice but to her father and 
Gilfrid. She foresaw some difficulty in completely 
refusing to see her mother if Lady Mirton proposed 
a meeting. 

Gilfrid might well have known such a contingency 
was likely to arise, and taken preventive measures 
against the consequences. Sir Chandos’s heart 
trouble, according to the statements in the paper, 
was of no very recent date; it was, therefore, quite 
probable that Dicky Mirton should have informed 
Gilfrid he was not likely to live very long. 

Colonel Dampier had to leave London that same 
evening for a few days’ absence in connection with 
his work, and Eunice scarcely saw him all day. She 
would be quite alone for a day or two, and that was 
rather a relief to her. Gilfrid had said he might 
look in one afternoon to see her, but several days 
passed and he did not come. He wrote every day, 
however, but he did not once allude to Mirton’s 
death. 

Eunice was sitting alone in the drawing-room one 
afternoon a few days later, when she heard a taxi 


EUNICE 


376 

stop outside. Thinking it might be Gilfrid, she went 
to the window, but she was only in time to catch a 
glimpse of a floating black veil that assuredly be- 
longed to a female figure. It was a little early for 
an ordinary visitor, and Eunice was just wondering 
who it could be when she heard footsteps on the 
stairs, the door was opened and Lady Mirton was 
announced. A large, black-clad figure rustled softly 
in the room. 

The door closed upon mother and daughter. 
They had not met for six years, not, in fact, since 
the memorable episode when Norman Parmeter had 
come to fetch her away after their hurried flight to 
Bath. The remembrance of that summer night was 
with Eunice now. During the interval she had 
emerged from childhood to womanhood; her wed- 
ding-day was close at hand. Her real knowledge 
of her mother belonged to an even remoter period, 
that obscure epoch before she went to live with the 
Parmeters. Now, face to face with Lady Mirton, 
she found her to be changed beyond all recognition. 
Eunice remembered her as slight, fair-haired, almost 
girlish-looking. In those days she had thought of 
her as tall; now she found that she was several 
inches shorter than herself. She was very stout and 
her face was no longer slight and pale, but large, 
puffy, and reddened in color; the fair hair was now 
dyed a darkish red. Her eyes regarded Eunice with 
a shrewish expression, in which distrust, suspicion 
and jealousy were largely commingled. Eunice felt 
a hideous sense of actual dislike and repulsion pene- 
trating all her being. She shrank from the embrace 
that Lady Mirton was not at all prepared to forego, 
and emerged from it with heightened color. 

It seemed to her that if her mother had remained 
with them all those years, life would have been intol- 


EUNICE 


377 

erable, degrading. And why — why had she returned 
now? 

“Will you sit down?” she said in a cold little 
voice that did not sound like her own. If the fates 
were kind, surely Gilfrid would not come to-day. 
She felt she would have given all she possessed to 
prevent a meeting between them. She was ashamed, 
and ashamed of her shame. It discovered to her the 
existence of a little army of mean and petty feelings 
that had never before come to the surface of her 
mind. 

“I thought,” said Lady Mirton, “that you would 
be more pleased to see me.” 

“I was — sorry to hear of your bereavement,” 
said Eunice, timidly. 

Lady Mirton leaned back in her chair and closed 
her eyes — those unquiet, restless grey eyes that could 
become so relentlessly cruel. 

“I dare say you are wondering why I am here. 
Well, I will tell you. I do not pretend to be sorry 
that Chandos is dead. We were very unhappy — 
he was selfish and inconsiderate, and his sons were 
odious to me. I wanted him to turn them out of the 
house because of their behavior, but he wouldn’t 
hear of it. And now he has left me with a miser- 
able pittance of a hundred a year. Not a penny 
more. Dicky gets most of it, because he is the eldest 
son, but there were good portions for both the 
younger ones. I am a beggar, Eunice, and I have 
come to ask for your help !” 

“My help?” Eunice looked at her in perplexity, 
but her heart sank a little. 

“Yes, I know you are going to mar^ a very rich 
man. I’ve heard the boys speak of Gilfrid Eliot, 
and I think you are very fortunate to make such 
a brilliant marriage. It’s really quite providential. 
You must tell him quite plainly that you can’t let 


378 


EUNICE 


your mother starve on a hundred a year. Don’t 
depend on promises — get it written down in black 
and white.” 

A slow paralysis seemed to be creeping over the 
girl’s brain. The indelicacy of the suggestion was 
the only point that seemed to detach itself quite 
clearly from a mass of confused, chaotic thought. 
But it was a sinister thing, too ; it flicked at the hap- 
piness which only a few minutes ago had been so 
complete, so unsoiled. She began to realize that 
with the return of Lady Mirton into her life all 
tranquillity was at an end. She saw the impossibility 
of going to Gilfrid with such a request as that upon 
her lips. And she had very little money of her 
own. The allowance her father could with difficulty 
give her would only suffice with care for her own 
clothes, but it was a tiny sum in comparison to 
Gilfrid’s great wealth, and she had often wished 
that in this respect things were more equal between 
them. 

‘‘I could not possibly ask him such a thing as 
that,” she said at last in a dull, final tone. 

“And why not, pray?” inquired Lady Mirton, 
raising her voice in anger. “Perhaps, though, you 
have never told him anything about me at all r Per- 
haps you are ashamed of my existence?” 

“He knows that you are my mother. He knew it 
before he asked me to marry him,” said Eunice. 

“Then what is there to prevent you from asking 
him a simple thing like that?” 

“I couldn’t — I can’t give you any reason,” said 
Eunice. 

“I made so sure you would help me. I came 
when I knew your father was away. I was afraid 
if he were here he would not let us see each other. 
Eunice — I am your mother, and you can’t let me 
starve.” 


EUNICE 


379 


“You should not have come here,” said Eunice 
with an effort. “This is my father’s house, not mine, 
and it would have been better to write first to pro- 
pose a meeting. Then I could have consulted him.” 

“I knew better than to do that,” said Lady 
Mirton, with a dry little laugh. “If I had left it to 
you I should never have seen you. Between you all, 
you would have invented some excuse for keeping 
me away.” 

Eunice colored. She knew that in her endeavors 
to prevent such an interview she would have been 
strongly supported by her father and Gilfrid. 

“You see, it’s so impossible for me to help you,'' 
she said with a kind of desperation, “that it is of 
little use for us to see each other. We have been 
apart too long.” 

“I have a right to see you. I should have seen 
you regularly all these years if Chandos had not 
prevented me. You are my own child — you can’t 
get over the fact.” There was a touch of the old 
undisciplined temper in her voice. “You must speak 
to Mr. Eliot at once and get him to settle something. 
You are making a brilliant marriage and I never 
imagined you would do that.” She looked at her 
with a cold, hard scrutiny. “You were so plain 
as a little girl I was quite ashamed of you.” 

Eunice rang the bell and ordered tea. All the 
time her mother was speaking she lived in dread 
of Gilfrid’s step on the stairs. This was the time 
he generally appeared if they were to go out to- 
gether. And if he were to come and find her mother 
there it would surely be difficult to convince him 
that she had not planned the interview in deliberate 
defiance of his wishes. 

It was impossible to suppose that Lady Mirton 
would soon go away. On the contrary, she would 
remain until the last hope of ever gaining her point 


38 o 


EUNICE 


was shattered by Eunice’s repeated refusals. Eunice 
remembered enough of her mother to have a pretty 
good notion of her obstinacy, her persistency. In 
the old days, a tussle of their two wills had been of 
frequent occurrence, and had always resulted in her 
own sharp and disastrous defeat. But now the posi- 
tions were changed. She wished she could feel 
sorry for her; she wished that she could help her 
and send her away satisfied. She did owe one thing 
to her, and that was the happy years she had spent 
at the Parmeters. That, strange to say, had at the 
beginning been her mother’s choice of a home for 
her. Eunice had never inquired into the motive that 
had inspired that action, the wisest, perhaps, of Lady 
Mirton’s whole life. On looking back she felt as 
if they must have reluctantly accepted the responsi- 
bility imposed upon them. They had known her 
well enough before she ever went to them to realize 
that she would not be an easy child to deal with. 
But she was aware of all that she owed to them, 
and she felt obscurely grateful to her mother for 
having procured for her those happy, serene years. 

Outside, the rain which had been falling most of 
the day had ceased, and there were watery gleams 
of sunlight dribbling through the trees in the square 
upon the burned-up grass below. A black cloud to 
the south seemed to foretell thunder and more rain. 
The trees and bushes were refreshed and had lost 
their stained look of dusty ^eyness. 

Tea was brought in and Eunice felt glad of the 
little interruption. She poured out tea, waited upon 
her mother, feeling always pre-occupied by the fear 
that at any moment Gilfrid might happen upon the 
intimate little scene. 

“I have to leave Daunton by the first of Septem- 
ber,” said Lady Mirton, “and I can’t hope that Dick 
will extend the time by a single day. I believe the 


EUNICE 


381 


three brothers are all going to live there for the 
present. What three young men can want with that 
great house I can’t imagine. But I suppose Dick 
could hardly keep it up alone — he will be half ruined 
by the death-duties as it is. You see, I have very 
little time to make any plans, and you must really 
help me as soon as possible. I have never had to 
make plans for myself before, everything was always 
arranged for me. You will find that out too as soon 
as you are married. You think now you will always 
have your own way, but a husband is very different 
from a fiance, I can assure you. You are going to 
help me, aren’t you, Eunice? Perhaps I took you 
a little by surprise at first, but I’m sure when you 
think it over you will see that what I have proposed 
is the only thing to do.” 

“I shall ask papa if he thinks there is anything 
I can do to help you,” said Eunice, reluctantly. 

“Nonsense I’^ said Lady Mirton impatiently, “you 
know perfectly well that will be quite useless. He 
would only forbid you to see me again. He is my 
worst enemy, and alw^s has been. All you have 
to do is to ask this Mr. Eliot, who is very rich indeed, 
to give me a proper allowance. He could not pos- 
sibly feel it, and then he would have the satisfaction 
of Imowing that his wife’s mother was not starving 
to death in some dreadful lodging at the seaside!” 

“I can’t ask Gilfrid; it is quite impossible,” said 
Eunice. 

“Then I shall write to him myself,” said Lady 
Mirton. 

“Oh, you mustn’t, please 1” Her face was white 
with alarm. “He — he wouldn’t like it. And you 
mustn’t expect anything from him.” 

“And why not?” said Lady Mirton. 

She could see that her threat had alarmed Eunice ; 
it was a useful thing to know. 


382 


EUNICE 


“Why not?” she said again. 

Eunice was silent. She was not prepared to tell 
her that Gilfrid had already made a condition that 
they were never to see each other. 

“You are a very undutiful daughter!” exclaimed 
Lady Mirton angrily. “I don’t believe you care in 
the least if I starve or not. You’ll be living in the 
lap of luxury yourself, which I suppose is all you 
care about.” She flung the words at Eunice with 
extraordinary violence. “You are utterly selfish and 
heartless — ^you are thinking only of your own com- 
fort, your own happiness. This man is in love with 
you, and when men are in love you can make them 
do just exactly what you like. You have only to 
explain the situation and he is sure to give in. Even 
if you don’t care, you might at least pretend that 
you do!” She had risen to her feet, and her face, 
hectic even through the rouge which was liberally 
daubed upon it, was working with passion. “I’m not 
going to be snubbed by you. You will have to do 
as I say or you shall have no peace. I shall write 
to Mr. Eliot this very night!” 

With this turmoil in the room Eunice had not 
observed the sound of voices and footsteps outside. 
She was gazing at her mother with large, startled 
eyes when the door opened and Gilfrid came quickly, 
eagerly, into the room. 

There was a deep silence. He could hardly, how- 
ever, have failed to hear the last infuriated sentence. 
He looked from one to the other in silence, and some 
glimmering of the truth forced its way to his brain. 

Eunice rose and gave him her hand. 

“Gilfrid, this is my mother. Lady Mirton,” she 
said in a cold, controlled voice. 

Gilfrid bowed coolly. His observant, attentive 
eyes bestowed upon her a quick, scrutinizing glance 
that was almost pitiless. Eunice was certain that 


EUNICE 


383 


not one detail of the coarsened face with its dabs 
of rouge nor of the dyed hair that displayed itself 
beneath the long veil, could have escaped him. 
There was something in his expression that fright- 
ened her. It seemed to say : “What have I done ? — 
What have I done?” She felt plunged into an abyss 
of shame and humiliation. 

Almost immediately he controlled his features 
with a visible effort and turning to Eunice said 
coldly : 

“I hope you are not engaged this afternoon? I 
was relying upon you to come to help me choose 
wall-papers.’’ 

“Yes, presently,” said Eunice, glancing fearfully 
at her mother and scarcely knowing what she said. 
“Papa is away, you know — I do not expect him 
back until to-morrow night.” 

“I am sorry that I shall not see Colonel Dampier,” 
said Gilfrid, walking to the window and looking 
out. “I should like to start as soon as possible, 
Eunice, for I’m certain it’s going to rain again.” 

Lady Mirton rose. “Well, I’ll say good-by,” 
she said to Eunice, “since you seem to be so busy. 
You can talk over what I’ve told you with Mr. Eliot 
after I’m gone.” 

She kissed Eunice, and the girl endured the second 
embrace with even more repugnance than the first. 
She accompanied her mother out of the room, thank- 
ful that she had at last decided to go away. 

Perhaps in that glimpse of Gilfrid she had seen 
that he would not be quite so easy to deal with as 
she had imagined. 

“Gives himself airs, doesn’t he?” said Lady 
Mirton with a coarse laugh. “Got a bit of a temper, 
I should think. Well, Eunice, you always wanted 
a touch of the curb, didn’t you? Write to me at 
Daunton and tell me what you’ve been able to do. 


EUNICE 


384 

If I don’t hear I’ll write to him I” She jerked her 
head toward the drawing-room. “He doesn’t look 
very proud of the connection at present — we must 
teach him better manners.’’ 

She had so deteriorated in appearance and speech 
that Eunice could scarcely believe she was the same 
woman. She had utterly lost all attraction, all 
fascination. She could not have been destitute of 
those qualities in the old days, for Eunice could 
remember that she had never been without friends 
of a kind. Now all that was common in her had 
come to the surface, and she did not look like a 
lady. Eunice realized this with a shock. She said 
good-by to her and returned to the drawing-room 
with sinking heart. 

Gilfrid ran lightly up to her and took her in his 
arms, as if realizing that the moment had been try- 
ing for her too. 

“Darling,” he said with reproach in his voice, 
“what did she want? I thought you weren’t going 
to see her again.” 

He had felt intensely repelled by the personality 
of Lady Mirton. She had been so much worse 
than he had ever expected. He had not been pre- 
pared for this rather disreputable-looking woman 
with the large, puffy, rouged face, the swollen lips, 
the dyed red hair. That this should be Eunice’s 
mother I He had hoped never to see her. Now 
that he had done so he told himself she looked a 
“regular bad lot,” not fit to approach his beloved, 
queenly, little Eunice. 

Eunice freed herself gently. Her nerves were so 
on edge she could hardly endure Gilfrid’s touch. 
“I couldn’t refuse to see her,” she said, “and indeed 
I hadn’t any choice. She came unexpectedly and 
was shown up here. And, after all, she is my 
mother.” 


EUNICE 


385 


“What did she want?” he inquired. 

“She wants my help. You see, she’s been left 
very badly off.” 

“But she’s got some sort of annuity, I suppose?” 

“They didn’t get on well. He only left her a 
hundred a year.” 

“You can’t possibly help her, Eunice,” he said, 
with decision. 

“No,” agreed Eunice. 

She shook her head. “He will do nothing. I’m 
sure of that.” 

She sat down. Gilfrid came a step nearer. 

“What is the matter?” he said more kindly, “what 
is worrying you?” 

“I feel I ought to do something to help her. She 
hasn’t any one. And she seems to want me.” 

“She can’t possibly have you, then,” said Gilfrid 
in a light, affectionate tone. “I’ve got first claim 
now. She’s too late.” 

Eunice looked at him strangely. “I — am sorry 
for her. And she’s my mother. It is so terrible 
to dislike one’s own mother.” 

“She could hardly expect you to cherish an undy- 
ing affection for her, when she deserted you,” said 
Gilfrid with cool irony. 

“I’m sure it’s wrong to feel as I felt just now 
when she kissed me,” said Eunice musingly. 

“My dearest, we’re only human,” he said. He 
was immensely relieved to find she had thus aroused 
her daughter’s violent antipathy. It was the best 
thing that could have happened. “Now that I’ve 
seen her myself, I feel more than ever how wise we 
were to decide that we would never receive her.” 

“Wise?” She looked up at him. “It’s easy to 
be wise, I think. But is it right for a daughter to 
refuse to have anything to do with her mother, who 
may even be in want?” 


386 


EUNICE 


“I think I am the best judge of what is right in 
this matter,” said Gilfrid. “I’ve seen more of the 
world than you have, Eunice. And your father 
agrees with me. I have his support.” 

“But things are changed. She’s poor and lonely — 
and deserted. She’s been very unhappy — Sir Chan- 
dos wasn’t kind to her, nor were his sons. Oh, 
I’m not blaming them — it isn’t that. Only I feel 
she’s been punished.” 

Gilfrid looked a little impatient. He was a man 
who was very much accustomed to having his own 
way. 

“My dearest Eunice, I’d rather not discuss the 
merits and the demerits of the case with you. It 
was a shocking story, and I’m inclined to think she 
thoroughly deserved all she’s got. At any rate, she 
hasn’t the shadow of a claim on you, the child she 
first ill-treated — ^yes, I know that, too; Lady Eliot 
told me — and then abandoned.” He spoke with 
rising passion. “She has no right to come here at 
all. I hope you made it clear that she wasn’t to 
come back? You must think of your father — of all 
you owe to him!” 

“I do think of him,” said Eunice, a little sadly. 

“Did you tell her not to come again?” 

She shook her head. 

“You must write to her, then, or better still get 
your father or a lawyer to do so. Oh, Eunice, how 
glad I shall be when we’re married and I shall have 
the right to protect you from everything odious and 
disagreeable I” 

“But I shall alwa^^ know that she’s alone and 
poor and unhappy. Even you can’t save me from 
that knowledge.” 

Gilfrid made a little gesture of impatience. 

“My dearest, there are thousands of poor, lonely, 
^nd unhappy women in the world.” 


EUNICE 387 

“But this one is my mother,” said Eunice, in a 
withdrawn voice. 

“Oh, my dear,” he said quickly, “that is just the 
enormous pity of it. But let’s try to forget it now. 
Put on your hat and come out with me.” 

She slowly went out of the room and climbed the 
stairs to her own bedroom. The whole world 
seemed incredibly changed; it had lost all security, 
all permanence. She felt suddenly astray and the 
hands she had trusted to guide her had failed her 
a little. . . She began to ask herself what Julian 
would have said — what Julian would have done. 

Gilfrid was thinking of her comfort, her happi- 
ness ; he wanted her to be quite free from all sordid 
little cares. He wanted to detach her from that 
disgraceful episode of the past in which her mother 
had played so dismal a part. It was for her sake, 
and she tried to see that he was right. But Julian 
would have thought of something else — that is to 
say, if he still had that old, strong sense of duty. 
He would always examine a course of action, no 
matter how clearly its expediency might be indi- 
cated, in order to see if it were right or wrong. He 
had a spiritual standard and Gilfrid had a worldly 
one. She checked her thoughts at this point; they 
savored of disloyalty. It was absurd to think of 
Julian when she had not even seen him since his 
boyhood. 

She was very pale when she went back to the 
drawing-room, and the black, close-fitting hat she 
wore accentuated her pallor. Gilfrid, aware of the 
threatened rift within the lute and that his efforts 
to make her take a practical, normal view of the sit- 
uation had not altogether prevailed, now went up 
to her and drawing her close to him kissed her. The 
touch of his lips weakened her. It was so much 
easier to agree, to submit. And surely since she had 


388 


EUNICE 


promised to marry him it was her duty to do as he 
wished. 

“Oh, Gilfrid, 1 am sorry,” she said, clinging to 
him a little. 

“But, darling, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. 
After all, you couldn’t help her coming.” 

“Oh, not about that. But because I didn’t quite 
agree with you just now.” 

“Oh, never mind,” he said. “And I don’t want 
to be hard on your mother — you mustn’t think that 
— but I do feel it’s better you should not see each 
other. She came to arouse your pity, and you are 
so tender-hearted you couldn’t help giving her what 
she asked. I’m going to save you from yourself 
and her.” His tone was deeply affectionate, but it 
held that iron ring of determination which sometimes 
in him had dismayed her a little. “You do under- 
stand; don’t you, darling?” 

“Yes,” said Eunice meekly. 

“Nothing must ever come between us,” he said, 
“I love you too much.” His voice was full of love. 
He was relieved to find that he loved her more than 
ever, although he had seen Lady Mirton face to 
face. Somehow he had always feared that if he 
saw her in the flesh it must inevitably diminish his 
love for her daughter. 

“So that’s all quite settled,” he assured her cheer- 
fully. 


CHAPTER XL 

G ilfrid went back to his rooms that evening with 
the conviction that he had met and grappled 
with and even ultimately solved the problem of Lady 
Mirton. It strengthened him to feel that Colonel 


EUNICE 


389 


Dampier would approve whole-heartedly of his con- 
duct when he came to learn about the unpleasant 
little episode, enacted during his own absence from 
town. 

Eunice had naturally, he reflected, been moved by 
the knowledge of her mother’s loneliness and com- 
parative poverty; she was so young and tender- 
hearted and full of generous impulses that it was 
impossible they should not affect her. Gilfrid would 
not have had her otherwise, but he felt that she 
had need of intimate guidance. She had been left 
too much to herself, and from this had supervened 
inevitably a certain independence of action and con- 
duct. Colonel Dampier was too busy to discover all 
that went on in her mind. He left too many deci- 
sions to her. She should have had a wise, loving 
mother to train her. 

But to Eunice, alas, the problem was very far 
from being solved. It had only been temporarily 
shelved while she discussed wall-papers with Gilfrid. 
When she was alone again it assumed immense pro- 
portions, excluding all thought of anything else, and 
no details incidental to her approaching marriage 
could drive it from her mind. Nor, it must be said, 
did Lady Mirton intend that this should happen. 
She followed up her visit by long, imploring letters, 
entreating Eunice’s help. “If you were not going 
to be married so soon I should beg you to come and 
live with me — even if only for a few months. I 
dread being alone. I am afraid of the future. You 
do not know how cruel the world can be to a lonely 
poor woman. You must see me again; you are 
all I have in the world. Don’t let other claims and 
ties divide us when we have just found each other 
again. I was hurt by your indifference and I spoke 
angrily to you, but you must not think for that reason 
that you are not very dear to me. Don’t believe it 


390 


EUNICE 


when they tell you that you owe me nothing, but 
remember I am your mother. . 

Such sentences as these could not but affect Eunice 
profoundly, they aroused the voice of conscience, 
making her ask herself again and again where her 
duty lay. She did not answer the letters, but Lady 
Mirton did not require answers. She believed in 
the continual dropping, and Eunice learned to dread 
the sight of those black-edged envelopes. 

Colonel Dampier returned a few days later, just 
in time for dinner. He found Eunice in the drawing- 
room. She had not told him of her mother’s visit, 
but he had received an accurate and detailed account 
of it from Gilfrid, with a plea for assistance and 
support. The news had given Colonel Dampier a 
shock. He had never imagined that Lady Mirton 
would dare to approach her daughter after these 
years of separation. That it had been done in his 
absence showed it to have been premeditated. Not 
that there was surely any chance of Eunice’s ever 
falling under her mother’s influence. He was glad 
to think that his own relations with his daughter 
had been too close and deep and harmonious for 
that. They had lived together for many years in 
an atmosphere that had been wholly free from dis- 
sension or petty bickering. This would surely mili- 
tate against the success of any advance made by the 
other side. And Gilfrid was there to help him with 
all the tremendous aid of his devoted love. It was 
odd that Gilfrid should have been acutely appre- 
hensive of this very danger, which had seemed to 
himself so remote. 

“My dear child,” he said, “I’m so sorry to hear 
from Gilfrid that you have been disturbed by a visit 
from Lady Mirton while I was away. If I had 
thought it possible that you could have this annoy- 


EUNICE 


391 


ance just now I should have tried not to leave you 
alone.” 

“How did you hear, papa?” she asked. 

“Gilfrid wrote. He seemed very much disturbed 
about it.” 

“Yes, he was,” agreed Eunice. 

For the first time in her life, perhaps, she found 
it difficult to be quite frank with her father. She 
knew that if she were to disclose all the results of 
her meditations upon the subject, he would inevitably 
be hurt. She was aware of a divided duty, and in 
the essence of it there seemed to be a subtle disloy- 
alty to him. 

“It was a surprise to me,” she went on, in a low 
tone. “1 mean, I didn’t know, of course, that she 
was coming. She’s very unhappy — she’s alone and 
poor. I found her terribly altered. And she wants 
my help, my sympathy. She wants — if I only knew 
how to give it — a little of my love.” 

“She forfeited all right to that six years ago,” 
said the colonel bitterly. 

He was aware of a change in Eunice. Lady 
Mirton had evidently worked on her feelings — 
Gilfrid had given him a hint of something of the 
kind — she had made appeals, entreaties of a senti- 
mental kind, calculated to arouse pity in a young 
girl. 

“She had no business to come,” he continued 
sternly; “I shall have to give orders that she is never 
to be admitted again.” 

“Yes. If we have to meet again it will be better 
for me to go to her,” said Eunice. 

“But, Eunice, dear, I can’t allow that. I can’t 
allow you to see her at all. Gilfrid and I are per- 
fectly agreed on the point. You can’t really wish 
to see her, and if I forbid it you can make that your 
excuse for not going.” 


392 EUNICE 

Eunice looked up with a curious, remote expres- 
sion in her eyes. 

“I don’t feel as if it could be dismissed as easily 
as that,” she said. “My mother keeps on writing 
to me. She is in a very miserable, almost desperate, 
state. If anything happened to her I should feel 
responsible.” 

“Eunice, I don’t often assert my authority,” said 
Colonel Dampier; “you know I’ve let you do pretty 
much as you liked always, and I believe some people 
have blamed me for it. But in this case I know 
better than you. I can’t have you either seeing your 
mother or writing to her. It would serve no useful 
purpose, and there is a grave danger that it might 
bring about a rupture between you and Gilfrid. 
You’ve won the love of a good man; you mustn’t 
risk losing it for any quixotic notions of this sort. 
Perhaps you haven’t looked at the matter in this 
light?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Eunice. “I’ve tried to look at it 
from every point of view. And I feel that if I really 
thought it was my duty to go to her — to help her — 
even to stay with her — I should perhaps have to 
break off my engagement to Gilfrid.” 

She spoke so simply, almost as if she were uncon- 
scious of the full disastrous meaning of the words. 

“But, my dear child, you have made a very solemn 
promise to Gilfrid. No one advised you or forced 
you into it. And you can’t go back on it without a 
very serious and legitimate reason.” 

“But if this seemed to me a serious and legitimate 
reason?” she said, in her cool unemotional way. 

“You care for Gilfrid, don’t you?” cried Colonel 
Dampier, with a touch of anger. 

“Should I have promised to marry him if I hadn’t 
cared?” 

“But you can speak so calmly of ending your en- 


EUNICE 


393 


gagement!” He looked at her with a long, critical 
scrutiny. Had she really something of her mother’s 
nature — her caprice — her inability to care long for 
any one thing? It was horrible to look at her in 
this way, trying to discover in her any traits resem- 
bling those of the woman who had coldly murdered 
his own happiness, ruined his honor, made deliber- 
ate sacrifice of him. 

“You can really contemplate giving Gilfrid up?” 
he said, as she did not speak. “Now — so near your 
wedding day — and for the sake of the most worth- 
less woman in the world?” There was a deep re- 
proach in his voice that seemed to suggest actual 
disillusionment; it struck at her very heart. “I 
have not said anything about myself, Eunice. I 
have not reminded you of anything you may owe 
to me I” 

His stern, sad eyes touched her as the severity 
of his words could never do. She came up to him 
fearlessly. 

“I owe everything to you, papa. I shall never 
forget that. All the happiness almost that I have 
ever had. If I seem to sacrifice you and Gilfrid 
you must never think I am doing it for my own 
pleasure — or without knowledge.” 

He bent his head and kissed her. “Forgive me, 
my darling. Only, when you’ve thought it over 
you’ll find, perhaps, that others have stronger claims 
upon your love and your duty than Lady Mirton. 
You mustn’t break Eliot’s heart — he is very devoted 
to you.” 

They went down to dinner. All through that 
meal they spoke of ordinary things, but they were 
both preoccupied. When Eunice rose to leave the 
room she went round the table and kissed her father. 

“I’m going to say good-night, papa.” 

She was gone almost before he could speak. Per- 


394 


EUNICE 


haps she felt as he did, that further discussion at 
this point would only be superfluous and painful. 
But he had — as in duty bound — put his own case 
and Gilfrid’s quite clearly before her. In his sor- 
row and indignation he had let fall hard words, but 
Eunice would forgive them; she would understand 
that they were not meant for her, they were wrung 
from him by the intolerable position into which 
Lady Mirton had thrust them all by her selfish, ill- 
advised action. Only it had been a sharp surprise 
to him that Eunice should have been forced to con- 
sider her mother’s point of view at all. It was so 
at variance with her fine sense of loyalty. No won- 
der Gilfrid had been upset and alarmed, so that in 
his anxiety he had written off to Colonel Dampier 
at once. It had puzzled him to find by that letter 
how anxious Gilfrid was. Now he understood, and 
he realized that Eunice must certainly have shown 
him something of her obdurate uncertainty, her in- 
ability to admit at once the rectitude of their de- 
cision. He hadn’t succeeded in persuading her that 
her first duty was to obey her father. Where it 
would lead to, Heaven alone knew . . . Colonel 
Dampier had been reconciled to the thought of part- 
ing with Eunice, because he felt that her marriage 
would prove not only a brilliant but a very happy 
one. He liked Gilfrid so much that he could sur- 
render his daughter to him without a qualm. All 
that he had been able to ascertain of him had only 
confirmed his view that he was worthy of her — was 
high-principled, honorable, intelligent. He had not 
dwelt so much upon the worldly aspect of the mar- 
riage, but he could not be blind to it. And now they 
were face to face with a menace that imperiled his 
child’s future happiness. 

Eunice went up to her room and sent away her 
maid as soon as possible. She wanted to be alone. 


EUNICE 


395 


The night was warm, and, putting on a thin, loose 
wrapper, she lay down on a sofa near the open win- 
dow. It was a close, still August night, and the stars 
were very brilliant, unusually so for London. The 
sky was cloudless above the confused silhouettes of 
clustered roofs. A faint stir of distant traffic was 
conveyed not unmusically to her ear. 

She was unhappy, and the remembrance of her 
father’s words stabbed her. The whole world 
seemed to be in a strange state of confusion and 
pain. She had wounded her father and Gilfrid, 
these two people who supremely loved her. They 
didn’t seem to understand how deeply her mother’s 
unhappy situation affected her. They asked her to 
stand aside and behave as if Lady Mirton didn’t 
exist. They appealed to her love, her loyalty, her 
honor, and all the time she was tormented by the 
conviction that they were both wrong. Something 
— her conscience, perhaps — assured her of this. 
She knew that Gilfrid would never allow their mar- 
riage to be deferred in order that she might go for 
a few weeks to be with her mother. And Lady Mir- 
ton needed her. Eunice rose at last and moved rest- 
lessly up and down the room . . . 

Suddenly an idea occurred to her. She would go 
down to Brighton to-morrow and see Mrs. Par- 
meter. It needed perhaps a woman’s judgment to 
settle this thing aright. So far, she had not thought 
about consulting Julian; now she felt that if she 
could only see him he would be able to straighten 
out matters for her. When she had come to this 
decision the clouds seemed to lift a little. It was 
true that she had not seen Mrs. Parmeter and Julian 
for many years, but she had never quite lost touch 
with them. She wanted to taste again that unfor- 
gotten atmosphere of her old home. 


EUNICE 


396 


On the following morning she came down to an 
early breakfast with her hat on. 

“Papa — Pm going down to Brighton to see the 
Parmeters. You know Pve never been and they 
have so often asked me. You don’t mind, do you? ’ 

“No, my dear — Pve often thought you ought to 
go.” It did not occur to him to connect this sud- 
den decision with the problem of her mother. “You 
won’t be late?” 

“No — there’s a train at six if I don’t catch an 
earlier one. That’ll bring me back in time for 
dinner.” 

She felt relieved that he neither questioned her 
nor made any reference to yesterday’s happenings. 

“Remember me to them all,” he said. “I imagine 
they will want to hear about your engagement. Is 
Geoffrey at home now?” 

“Pm not sure,” she said. “But it’s Mrs. Par- 
meter I want to see.” 

He noticed that she ate very little and swallowed 
her coffee hastily. Then she went up to him and 
kissed him, saying: 

“I must go or I shall miss my train.” 

He watched her as she gathered up her gloves 
and little bag and went out of the room. 


CHAPTER XLI 



HEY came face to face with each other on the 


A windy Front, and in that moment of swift yet 
dubious recognition it would have been hard to tell 
with whom the first advantage lay. Because they 
were neither of them quite sure — although at the 
same time so profoundly and emotionally convinced 
— they hesitated to put their belief to the final and 
daring test. Julian would have probably passed her 


EUNICE 


397 


by and then spent days and nights in futile regret, 
because he was so unlike Geoffrey, who always seized 
opportunity by the wings with his powerful hands. 
But Eunice, nothing daunted, ran the risk of mak- 
ing a mistake and stopped in front of him, saying 
eagerly: 

“I’m sure you are Julian Parmeter. Don’t please 
disappoint me by saying you are not 1” 

She^held up her small flushed face, and the shin- 
ing eyes took him back the best part of a decade, 
blotting out the interval with a fine indifference to 
all the momentous things it held. For nothing to 
him, now as then, mattered very much (on the hu- 
man plane, which is often such an awkward resting- 
place for us mortals) except his own people and 
Eunice. And Eunice passionately mattered! His 
answer was to grasp her hand in his, and they stood 
there facing each other, children again, amid the 
idling August crowds of aimless people, some of 
whom even paused to watch with naive curiosity the 
little scene. 

“Of course I’m Julian. And of course you’re 
Eunice I I really knew you, only I wasn’t sure . . . 
Oh, Eunice — how perfectly splendid!” He wanted 
to take her hand again, to assure himself that she 
was really there and not a beautiful ghost masquer- 
ading as Eunice the beloved. Were his feet really 
planted on the solid asphalt? Suddenly he was sen- 
sible of the eyes watching them. “We can’t stay 
here. Where shall we go? Of course you must 
come to lunch — but it’s early.” He looked about 
him in the old vague way. 

“The pier — ” suggested Eunice. “It’ll be windy, 
but I don’t mind that. And I know you don’t. I 
remember the song you used to say that the wind 
sang to you — in the pine-trees and on the sea.” Her 
face was all soft and glowing. 


398 


EUNICE 


“Oh, you haven’t forgotten, then?” he said, still 
feeling as if he were in some strange, fantastic 
dream. 

He must be alone with her, before he could take 
her back to see his mother. He must hear some- 
thing of what those years of separation had hidden 
from his knowledge. She must lift the curtain. His 
eyes were aflame as if with some new fire, his pale 
face was eager and animated under the dark thatch 
of hair. He was still so much, so very much, the 
boy she remembered. 

“Have you forgotten?” she parried. 

“Oh, I’m still as incapable of forgetting as ever,” 
he acknowledged with a smile that lit up his somber 
countenance and made him really look like the Julian 
she used to know. 

“And now I don’t envy you any more for your 
splendid memory,” she said; “I shall pity you. It 
so often hurts to remember.” 

And again it seemed to him she was the child 
Eunice — that adorable, wonderful child — seeking 
sympathy from the queer, shy boy who had cared 
for her with such dogged devotion. That fact had 
come to her with wiser years, and she wondered 
sometimes if time had taught him, too, to realize 
something of the grown-up quality of that past sen- 
timent. Only, it mustn’t be reconstituted ! ... Not 
on his side and certainly not on hers. It would be 
so fatally easy, she felt, looking at him now, to make 
him profoundly miserable as she had made him a 
thousand times in the old nursery days. But there 
was this knowledge to teach her mercy — she could 
never offend him — had never offended him past his 
beautiful and bountiful forgiveness. That was 
where the tragedy had lain for him. She walked 
now in very subdued fashion by his side toward the 
west pier, her face a little grave from the serious, 


EUNICE 


399 


comforting thoughts the sight of him had awakened. 

It was the wind, perhaps, with its tang of salt, 
the strong, keen fresh air after the heat of London, 
that made her feel so wonderfully alive, her pulses 
racing, her eyes aflame with soft light. 

They paid their twopences and passed through the 
revolving barriers on to the pier. 

The wind was blowing up for a storm, and every 
moment the sea was growing rougher. It was not 
fierce nor tragic in its violence to-day, full of deep 
menace and warning as it so often is on the South 
Coast; but it was in a gay, hoydenish mood, spark- 
ling in the sunshine. Its colors were beautiful — 
indigo, emerald, and a deep peacock blue, crowned 
by tossing crests of foam. Eunice walked steadily, 
her slight form scarcely swaying. Julian stole quick, 
furtive looks at her. She was charmingly dressed in 
a very simple dark-blue serge dress and a straw hat 
with a green wing. Everything about her was as 
dainty as ever. She harmonized so well with the 
colors of the sea and with the blue and grey and 
silver of the sky. Her dark hair was well under 
control, scarcely a curl escaped from its place. It was 
wonderful how he was able now to reconstruct the 
past and see themselves two children, again walking 
across the boarded surface of the pier, drinking in 
the great gusts of salt air, and playing at hide-and- 
seek to the disgust and annoyance of elderly persons 
who were reading novels and newspapers in shel- 
tered corners. 

Ahead of him, of course, there were bad mo- 
ments. She would tell him — she must tell him — 
all there was to tell of her engagement to Gilfrid 
Eliot. As if it mattered! They had all these glo- 
rious, wind-swept, sea-encircled hours before them. 
Who knows but the world may end to-night? He 
felt as reckless of the future as Browning’s immor- 


400 


EUNICE 


tal lover. These beautiful magic hours together. 
. . . Who ever called Brighton a banal place? It 
was the very home of romance I 

They found an unoccupied seat at the very end 
of the pier, close to the steps, most of which were 
nearly under water to-day. They could see the 
green waves moving vertiginously beneath the pier, 
deep, and with a treacherous false calm. They sat 
facing the Channel, the strong wind blowing in their 
faces. But whatever song it had sung in the past 
to Julian, it was singing a new and strange and very 
thrilling one to-day. 

“You’re not cold?” he said. It seemed natural to 
move a little closer to her, as if to shield her from 
the full brunt of the gale. 

“No, I’m simply loving it. You’re sure it doesn’t 
bore you?” 

“Bore me I” He mocked at the suggestion. 

She thought to herself: “How happy he looks. 
He never used to look so happy.” Aloud she said: 
“I’m going to begin to talk — to tell you things — 
when we’ve got used to this — this — ” She paused. 

“Happiness?” he filled in the gap, amazed at his 
own temerity. 

“Should you really call it that?” She bent dark, 
grave eyes upon him. 

“I think so,” he answered. 

“But I’ve got a lot to tell you — to ask you. Odd, 
worrying things, Julian. I came down to Brighton 
chiefly to ask your advice.” 

“Did you? You were coming to see me? But of 
course you were.” 

“Yes, I was on my way to your house. If you 
had been away I should have asked Mrs. Parmeter 
— to advise me.” 

“Let’s hear what it is,” he said. 


EUNICE 


401 

“My mother’s husband is dead,” she said sud- 
denly. 

“Oh, is that all? But I knew it — we saw it in 
the paper.” 

“But it isn’t all, Ju. It’s only the little b^inning. 
She has been unhappy for a long time — Sir Chandos 
wasn’t kind to her, and his three sons always hated 
her. And she’s been left very badly off and now 
she seems to want me to help her.” 

“You haven’t seen her, surely?” he said. He had 
always pictured Lady Mirton as finally removed 
from her daughter’s ken and sphere. It had often 
been a relief to him to feel that Eunice had not been 
at grips with that kind of influence. 

“Yes, she came a few days ago. I was alone, then 
Gilfrid came in. He was angry, I think. You see, 
he had told me before that I must never have any- 
thing to do with her when I was married. Perhaps 
he was afraid of something of the kind. But now 
it isn’t easy for me to agree to that condition.” 

“You mean — ^you want to see her?” But when he 
had said the words he felt how impossible it would 
be for Eunice to learn to care for her mother now. 

“Oh, you don’t understand. She’s terribly al- 
tered, Ju — she’s dreadful to look at, all dyed and 
painted and very fat. And I felt I hated her — that 
I didn’t want her near me. But that doesn’t alter 
the fact that I’m her child and that I ought at least 
to try to help her. Only they won’t let me.” 

“1 think, then, you’ve no choice,” said Julian. He 
was beginning to realize Gilfrid, his dominating 
will, his decisions from which there was apparently 
no appeal. 

“iVo choice ? When I must choose as soon as pos- 
sible between the two?” she cried with a touch of 
impatience. 

“Between the two?” He felt extraordinarily 


402 


EUNICE 


helpless, not daring to put the true explanation upon 
her words. 

“Between Gilfrid — and my mother,” she said. 

It was the first time she had expressed the fact 
to any one, and as she spoke she turned away a 
little so that he should not see her face. 

He was too stupefied almost to speak. All he 
could get out was a blunt : 

“You mean — it’ll come to this — you’ll have to 
give him up?” 

“Of course. That is, if he persists in making this 
condition. I’ve got to find out what’s right — what’s 
my duty. It’s there I thought you’d be able to help 
me.” Although she was very grave, there was noth- 
ing tragic about her, and what struck him most of 
all was the complete absence of any kind of emotion 
in her manner of discussing the critical situation in 
which she found herself. “I want your advice, 
Julian. You used to be so good at giving it. And 
I did take it — very often — though I hated you at 
the time!” 

They both laughed. 

“I mustn’t risk making you hate me now,” he said 
with a smile. 

“I don’t think you’d be able to do that,” she said 
very quietly, looking straight before her at the bois- 
terous, tumbling waves heaving under that unsettled, 
beautiful sky. 

His heart beat fiercely as he listened to the words. 
Oh, she hadn’t forgotten, and he had been a fool 
not to go and see her long ago ! He had let the 
golden hours slip by till another had stepped in and 
carried off the prize he did not know how to hold. 

“I don’t see how I can advise you,” he said em- 
phatically. “It is a question for your own heart. I 
don’t see myself how Lady Mirton can expect you 
to make such tremendous sacrifices.” 


EUNICE 


403 


“She wants care and kindness — to make up to her 
for all she’s suffered. I feel that she has been pun- 
ished. I don’t know if it would be right to marry 
when my marriage would mean deserting her.’’ 

“She found no difficulty, if you remember, in de- 
serting youP^ he told her with a touch of bitterness. 

“You shouldn’t say that — it isn’t like you, Ju.’’ 

“I’m sorry. But I remember too well all she 
made you suffer.’’ 

“All the more reason why I shouldn’t hesitate.” 

“And your promise to Eliot?” he felt compelled 
to remind her. 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Because you seem to put aside his claim so 
lightly.” 

“And you think I’m doing wrong in putting it 
aside?” 

She turned to him as she spoke, the old lightning- 
flash in her eyes that were dark and stormy now as 
the sea. 

Julian fell back sullenly on a reiterated: “Don’t 
ask me. I simply can’t advise you.” 

“Oh, and I counted on you so to clear up the 
difficulty I” she cried impatiently. “You used to settle 
all my difficulties for me I” 

“But, my dear Eunice — your difficulties of six 
years ago I” 

“They seemed just as difficult to me.” 

“You didn’t,” and his face broke into one of his 
rare, appealing smiles, “always accept my miserable 
solutions, did you?” 

“You’d find me different now. If you’d only try 
to help ” 

“It isn’t that I won’t. It is — if you’ll try to be- 
lieve me — that I can’t.” 

“You think I ought to set my mother aside and 
marry Gilfrid?” 


404 


EUNICE 


“I never said so.” 

”No, but you implied it. You’re just like papa — 
you’d rather anything than that I should go to my 
mother.” 

Julian was silent, aware of how infinitely he would 
prefer for her the latter less irrevocable alternative. 
But it was not for him, who would have everything, 
perhaps, to gain by Gilfrid’s loss, to say so. He was 
suddenly aware amid the painful confusion of his 
own thoughts how impossible — nay, how dishonor- 
able — it would be if he were to tell her what was in 
his heart. 

Out there on the pier it was growing perceptibly 
colder. There was no sun now, for great purple 
wracks of storm-cloud had traveled up from the 
southwest and obscured it. The wind had increased 
in violence, and a change had come over the sea. 
It had lost its gay, rough, hoydenish aspect, and was 
thundering with fury against the beach. A wave 
more adventurous than the rest broke upon the pier, 
and flung a shower of stinging spray in their faces. 
Julian sprang up immediately. 

“We must go. You’ll get wet through.” 

He linked his arm in hers, supporting her, for the 
wind smote them with such violence she could hardly 
ke^ her feet. 

On their way back to the road he found courage 
to say: 

“Why don’t you put off your marriage and try 
living with Lady Mirton for a few weeks? Then 
if it didn’t answer ” 

She shook her head. “It would mean a definite 
break with Gilfrid. He has made up his mind that 
I’m not to have anything to do with her. I must 
either give in, or else break off my eng^ement.” 

How she reminded him of the old Eunice — the 
restive cuckoo in their nest. 


EUNICE 


405 


They left the pier, walking toward Brunswick 
Terrace in the teeth of a strong southwesterly gale. 
The crowd on the Front had thinned perceptibly, 
and a few big drops of rain were beginning to dis- 
perse the remaining stragglers. 

Julian let himself into the house with his latch- 
key, and led the way up to the drawing-room, where 
his mother was sitting. 

“Eunice is here, mother,” he said. 

Eunice ran forward into those welcoming arms. 

“Dear Mrs. Parmeter — I feel as if I’d come 
home — ” she said. She was all flushed and smiling. 

“I’m so glad to see you, Eunice dear. You must 
stay to luncheon. I wonder if I should have known 
you?” 

“Julian knew me — and I knew him,” said Eunice. 

Julian stood there watching the little scene with 
shining satisfied eyes. He had a strange longing to 
go up to her and tell her that now she had come 
he could never, never let her go again. She was 
part of his life, part of his home; she had her own 
place there, and like a lovely prodigal child she 
could always claim her inalienable right to return 
and remain as long as she liked, forever, indeed, if 
she so chose. He knew that the house had never 
been the same to him since the day when he had 
come back from school to find her gone. 

She was looking radiant now ; that cold, chilled 
aspect she had had toward the end of their stay on 
the pier had left her, and she was less colorless, 
while her eyes were excitedly on fire. He was glad 
to see that she knew no strangeness with his mother ; 
she was friendly, tender, at her ease, as if she had 
indeed been her own daughter. 

Mrs. Parmeter said presently: “Geoffrey used to 
tell us about you. He always enjoyed going to see 
you when he was in town.” 


4o6 


EUNICE 


“Yes, I think he liked coming. Where is Geoff?” 

“He’s staying with friends. He’ll be back to- 
morrow — he will be sorry to miss you.” 

“I’m sorry to have missed him too. But it was 
really you — and Julian — whom I wanted to see.” 

Now she began to explain matters to Mrs. Par- 
meter. At the end she said almost resentfully: 

“And Ju refuses to advise me I” 

Mrs. Parmeter, with all her quick intuition where 
Julian was concerned, saw how impossible it would 
have been for him to advise her. She had seldom 
seen him look as he did now, beautiful and alive with 
a kind of tremulous animation, as if he had been 
thawed by some exquisite human touch. It was as 
if the sudden coming of Eunice had dissolved all the 
hard places in his heart. 

“I don’t think any one could advise you, dear. 
But it isn’t reasonable to ask the young to make a 
very great sacrifice of love and happiness.” She 
looked earnestly at Eunice as she spoke. 

“You mustn’t emphasize the sacrifice,” said 
Eunice, in so low a tone that the words never reached 
Julian, who had moved a little apart from them. 

“She can’t care for him,” thought Mrs. Parmeter. 
There was no one to tell her how recently Eunice 
had acquired this knowledge for herself. An hour 
ago on Brighton Pier? But the links that held her 
were forged long ago in the Borghese Gardens in 
Rome, when Julian had put his book into his pocket 
and slipped off his seat to join her and Geoffrey. 

Mrs. Parmeter said quickly: “Then if there’s 
any doubt, go to your mother. At least that isn’t 
irrevocable.” She was thinking of Julian, her words 
were actually inspired by a wish to help him, to 
speak the words which he was bound almost in 
honor not to utter. She was certain from the look 
in his somber eyes that this meeting, so apparently 


EUNICE 


407 


simple, was yet imbued with a deep meaning for 
hini, had been for him a passionate experience, re- 
viving perhaps all his old childish adoration for the 
girl who in her smiting beauty had come back into 
his life. 

“If I do that it’ll mean so much else,” she said 
softly. 

But Mrs. Parmeter had no clue to these myste- 
rious words. 

In the evening Julian took her to the station to 
see her off to London. It was raining still, and the 
wind was blowing in fierce, spasmodic gusts. The 
sea was running high ; they could hear it thundering 
on the beach. 

On the way he said to her, almost coldly: 

“Well, do you think it’s helped you at all coming 
here to-day?” 

“It would have helped me more if you had told 
me what was my duty,” she answered. 

“You are the only judge,” he said in a controlled 
voice. “I am the last man to advise you.” 

“I think it will end in my going to my mother,” 
she said at last. 

He was surprised out of all reticence. 

“You’re really serious in this idea of giving up 
your marriage?” 

“Yes,” she said, in a low, strangled tone. 

There was silence. Suddenly she turned to him. 

“Shall I tell you something I’ve never told to a 
soul before? Can you keep a secret? But of course 
— you always could.” 

“Tell me,” he said. 

“Almost from the first day — even when I was 
feeling really happy — I felt that something wasn’t 
all right. You see, I liked Gilfrid very much — 
enough to assure myself that I loved him. He made 


EUNICE 


408 

me feel like that — he loved me so much. No one 
had ever loved me like that before. It was only 
when I was alone that I felt as if I oughtn’t to have 
let it happen. It was too great a change from all 
I had known. Not only that he was very rich, and 
papa and I are only just comfortably off — but be- 
cause that life of his had no connection with all the 
things that had helped to make me. More than 
that, I saw it was capable of separating me from 
them forever.” 

“What things, Eunice, what things?” he said in 
a voice that vibrated with an emotion he could now 
no longer conceal. 

“The greatest of them all was the Catholic 
Church. I felt as if I had refused something that 
was offered to me, and that instead I had taken 
something almost — worthless. You see, I had al- 
ways thought that some day when I was old enough 
to choose I should become a Catholic. And last 
spring Geoffrey gave me some books. I read them 
and they reminded me of our old talks in the school- 
room. I began to think that God had let me spend 
all those years here when I was a child in order that 
I might learn to be a Catholic. And Gilfrid — 
though I did like him, did care for him — seemed to 
take me further and further away.” 

He was silent. It was impossible to answer her. 
Her low, unemotional tone conveyed to him an im- 
pression of sincerity that illuminated the whole situa- 
tion. She had always had doubts. But she would 
have gone on with this marriage in spite of them 
had not Lady Mirton intervened. 

They reached the station and he saw her into the 
train. As she bent her head out of the window she 
said to him in a low tone : 

“Good-by, Julian, pray for me. 

He smiled up at her. 


EUNICE 


409 


“Always — always — all my life/’ he said, and then 
turned and walked abruptly away. 


CHAPTER XLII 

W HEN Julian reached the house that evening 
after taking Eunice to the station he found 
that Geoffrey had returned unexpectedly. He often 
did that when perhaps the party proved to be not 
to his liking or when the weather was wet in the 
country. He was apt to get bored and restless when 
deprived of the games for which he had purposely 
paid the visit. Julian had always felt a pleasurable 
thrill on those former occasions when this had hap- 
pened, but to-night — he did not quite know why — 
the news of Geoffrey’s return jarred a little upon 
him. Perhaps he had wanted to spend the evening 
in quiet work; perhaps he had hoped to talk about 
Eunice’s wonderful visit to his mother alone. But 
in any case he felt that Geoffrey had unintentionally 
disturbed his plans. 

Geoffrey had arrived very soon after they had 
started for the station, and he was astonished when 
he heard that Eunice had lunched with them. Mrs. 
Parmeter did not tell him about Julian’s meeting 
with her on the Front; it did not seem necessary to 
go into details. She was always very careful not to 
tell Geoffrey anything about his brother that might 
hurt or annoy Julian. 

She was astonished because Geoffrey received the 
news with a frown, as if it had affected him disagree- 
ably. Suddenly he burst out with sudden anger : 

“Why did she come? Why can’t she keep away? 
Why doesn’t she leave him alone?” 

He seemed to be pitying his brother as if some 
Belle Dame sans merci “had him in thrall.” Geof- 


410 


EUNICE 


frey so rarely showed anger or spoke in this vehe- 
ment way that Mrs. Parmeter was distressed. 

“Leave him alone? Why, what do you mean, 
Geoff? She has left him alone all these years.’’ 

“Yes. And now when it’s too late — as far as he’s 
concerned — she comes back to unsettle him. Why 
did she come to-day?” 

“It is a long story,” said Mrs. Parmeter, “but 
now that Sir Chandos is dead. Lady Mirton is left 
alone and very badly off. She wants Eunice to help 
her — perhaps to live with her. Of course, Mr. Eliot 
won’t hear of it, and Colonel Dampier is against it 
too. I think she came to talk over the matter with 
us.” 

“She had far better have stayed away.” Geof- 
frey’s fair face was clouded. He felt as deeply irri- 
tated with Eunice as he had done in the old days 
when they were children and Julian’s devotion had 
manifested itself disproportionately. And he was 
angry, too, with Julian. 

He was in his room when he heard Julian come 
in and mount up the last flight to the attic that had 
once been Mr. Parmeter’s study. When his mother 
was not working there he preferred to use it now in- 
stead of the old school-room, which was too full of 
memories of Eunice. He had switched on the light 
and had taken out some fresh sheets of paper when 
the door opened and Geoffrey came into the room. 
He had decided that the moment had come for him 
to speak to Julian seriously about Eunice, and at the 
same time to try to rouse him from that curious 
apathetic attitude toward life. He had been worse 
than ever since he had heard the news of Eunice’s 
approaching marriage, and had shut himself up 
more than usual in this room, which had seen two 
generations of poets wrestling with the torments of 
creative energy. 


EUNICE 


411 

Julian’s face was very pale and his eyes were 
burning with a steady, somber fire that made them 
look enormous under the level black brows. His 
hair was slightly disarranged by the wind, and one 
dark lock strayed over his forehead. And his face 
wore a rapt look not so much of happiness as of a 
deep interior joy. That look irritated Geoffrey, 
who burst out: 

“Mother tells me Eunice has been here.” There 
was anger in his voice and Julian looked up quickly, 
amazed. It was very unlike Geoffrey to interrupt 
him when he was working up here, and his entrance 
this evening was less welcome than usual, because 
Julian desired to be alone with his thoughts, which 
circled like flocks of happy birds about Eunice. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. And instantly his face 
froze and became pale and masklike. Not even 
Geoffrey should ever know what Eunice’s coming 
had meant to him. 

He thought he must have made a mistake — that 
his ears had not heard aright — when Geoffrey spoke 
again. 

“I have come to talk to you about her!” 

“Yes?” said Julian. He laid down his pen and 
pushed the sheets of paper from him. All the time 
in his thoughts he was tracing the one word “Eunice” 
on the paper before him. It was the loveliest word 
to write. 

“To beg you,” continued Geoffrey rudely, “not 
to go on making an ass of yourself about this girl, 
who never has cared and never will care twopence 
about you !” 

Julian did not speak. He was still so astonished 
at the suddenness of the attack that he could not yet 
believe in its actuality. It did not seem real, just 
as for the first moment an unexpected declaration of 
love or sudden expression of unsuspected enmity 
never seems quite real. 


412 


EUNICE 


“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Ju,” continued 
Geoffrey, more softly. “I know you will say it isn’t 
any business of mine. But I want you to leave your 
world of shadows and come out into the real world, 
where the sun shines and the winds sweep through, 
and play a man’s part among men I You shut your- 
self up in a dream world, where a false picture of 
Eunice reigns as queen. It’s an imaginary vision — 
she isn’t in the least like what you picture her to be, 
any more than Petrarch’s lady was like Laura. You 
are wasting all your best years — the years of your 
splendid youth — pursuing a phantom that you are 
pleased to call Eunice. She’s not a bit like that really 
— you can take my word for it. She’s a very modern 
girl full of charm, utterly spoiled, rather pretty in 
a fanciful kind of way, and she knows which side 
her bread’s buttered on. She’s going to marry Gil- 
frid, not in the least because she cares for him, but 
because he’s out and out the richest and most eligible 
of all the young men who hang around her. She’s a 
successful, brilliant woman, and she’s no more like 
the little girl who used to get us into scrapes than 
you are I” 

“Why did you come up here to tell me this?” said 
Julian. His whole being seemed to be permeated 
with a slow, dull, red-hot anger. 

“I want to save you from your own dreams. 
Because you don’t talk about it you think we don’t 
know what’s going on in your mind. It’s not too 
late for you to set about doing a man’s work in the 
world. I’m ashamed when I think of you here, mor- 
bidly mourning or rejoicing over a girl you’ve hardly 
seen since you were fifteen. I tell you she wants 
nothing that you can give her, though no doubt you 
can feed her insatiable vanity as well as, if not bet- 
ter than, any one else. She’ll like keeping you grov- 
eling at her feet.” 


EUNICE 


413 


It seemed to him that he must at all costs rouse 
Julian from that apathy of his. It was impossible 
that he should remain insensible under such a hur- 
ricane of abuse and contempt. 

“Don’t you suppose we know what makes you so 
queer and surly? It is because you’re not living a 
sane, normal life. You are dreaming, and you for- 
get that you’re no longer a boy — you’ve the respon- 
sibilities of a man. If you don’t realize this you’ll 
drm) out of the fight — you’ll be worth nothing I” 

Julian sat loofing at Geoffrey in that stupefied 
way, almost as if he were hypnotized. Yes, a great 
deal of it was, of course, quite true. This dream 
of his was more real than anything else. He lived 
in the creator’s world; its imaginative ecstasies and 
fervors thrilled him, and in the midst of its enchant- 
ing visions there moved a figure whom he called 
Eunice. She came into his work, into prose and 
verse alike. She made it live. She gave it all the 
poor value that it possessed. And Geoffrey had 
come to try to drive that elusive figure away. . . . 

“I should never have said a word if you had gone 
to see her last spring, but you were content never 
to go near her for all these months. It wasn’t a 
flesh-and-blood woman you wanted at all — I could 
have forgiven you that — but it was this silly shadow 
you were letting eat up your youth!” 

But she was there, looking at him out of the shad- 
ows in the gathering gloom of the summer night. 
Her pale face, her dark hair, the details of her dress, 
were all drawn with a certain sharpness of outline. 
She was not more truly present than she had always 
been before that wonderful coming of hers. That 
had changed her outward aspect a little, giving it a 
new precision; but now the former aspect and the 
present one had merged into each other . . . and 
Geoffrey must not be allowed to chase her away. . . . 


414 


EUNICE 


“You must see that you are throwing your life 
away. One can’t exactly say you are going to the 
dogs, but there’s a hopeless, rotten slackness about 
you that must tell on you in the end.” 

But Julian did not speak, and his silence became 
to Geoffrey unbearable; it was like going on hitting 
a person who never uttered a sound, and you could 
not tell whether he was hurt or not. Only that pale 
face and blazing, burning eyes confronted him. 

He turned abruptly at last and went out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XLIII 

“T^ear child, how late you are I I hope you’re 
-L' not wet — it’s a vile night. You must be 
starving. I’ve told them to have dinner ready.” 

Eunice was struck afresh by her father’s thought- 
fulness, his unfailing solicitude. In spite of the 
strenuous work that filled so many hours of his day, 
he still found time in which to think of her, as if 
she were — as indeed she was — the principal end and 
object of his existence. She went up to him and 
kissed him almost with remorse at the thought that 
her decision, if carried out, would surely cause him 
suffering. 

“Thanks so much — but I’m not really hungry. 
And it was lovely at Brighton. I saw Mrs. Par- 
meter — and Julian. Geoffrey wasn’t there.” 

Her face had lost its look of puzzled anxiety, it 
was wonderfully softened, and her eyes glowed with 
a steady, subdued light. Her cheeks were still 
flushed from the flogging of the sea wind. 

He looked at her with a curious tenderness. 
What a lovely young bride she was going to make ! 
Gilfrid Eliot was lucky to win her. ... At that 


EUNICE 


415 


moment Eunice felt poignantly how dear she was to 
him. It seemed to her that she had never done any- 
thing to deserve this love; she saw herself careless 
and selfish, occupied with her own affairs, her own 
petty interests. Of course, she had tried to be a 
good daughter; it wasn’t hard when he was so abun- 
dantly satisfied with such meager efforts. 

They went into the dining-room, but Eunice ate 
little dinner. Beneath her outward calm she was 
conscious of a strange excitement. She felt a little 
fey. The visit to Brighton had straightened out the 
crooked path. No doubt there were evil moments 
ahead in which she would have to repair the wrong 
she had done to Gilfrid. There was smarting hu- 
miliation in the thought. She had mistaken her own 
heart; she had made herself believe that Julian had 
forgotten her. 

Not that he cared for her now. Just a pale, shad- 
owy reflection of the old devotion clung to him, mak- 
ing him tender toward her. If she could have seen 
him sometimes she could perhaps have taught him 
to love her. But now she was going away — she 
would never see him again. She would pass out of 
his life — out of all their lives. 

She would not tell Colonel Dampier to-night. He 
had been so kind to her always that she shrank from 
hurting him. If he had been brutal or unkind or 
fussy, like so many fathers, she could the better have 
excused her action. But she could only remember 
always at his hands that beautiful, never-failing kind- 
ness. 

Toward the end of dinner a telegram was brought 
to Eunice. It contained but a few words: *^Come 
to-morrow without fail D. Mirton/^ and giving an 
address in West Kensington. Eunice scribbled a re- 
ply, 'Will come at 3.30. Eunice,'' and gave it to the 
waiting servant. This done, she turned to her father. 


4i6 


EUNICE 


“It was from my mother,” she said. “She wants 
me to go to see her to-morrow. You won’t mind?” 

“You know that I mind,” he answered; “but I am 
not going to interfere with you, Eunice. When you 
are married, though, I think you will have to obey 
Gilfrid in this matter. He feels even more strongly 
about it than I do.” 

Although his voice was kind, it held something of 
sternness. 

She said desperately: 

“Something must be settled before I’m married. 
And it’s better that I should go there than that she 
should come here, and run the risk of meeting Gil- 
frid again.” 

“Do you know,” he said, “you are running a great 
risk of losing Gilfrid altogether?” 

Eunice did not answer. Evidently the telegram 
had disturbed her. It seemed to come to her with 
something of the inexorability of fate. Something 
that was irresistible, changing her whole life. 

“I am tired, I think I will go to bed,” she said, 
almost as soon as dinner was over. 

As he kissed her good-night he said : 

“I hope you invited the Parmeters to come to 
your wedding?” 

“I — I don’t think I said anything about it,” she 
confessed. “But of course — I am sure — Mrs. Par- 
meter will come if I ask her.” 

“And Julian?” he persisted. “Julian used to be 
such a friend of yours. One mustn’t forget old 
friends, Eunice.” 

She looked at him gravely. Ah, if he only knew 
how impossible it had been to forget Julian, perhaps 
he would forgive her the more easily for all the pain 
she was going to bring upon him. 

“Julian is such a recluse,” she said lightly. “I 
don’t suppose he’s ever been to a wedding in his life. 


EUNICE 


417 


But I am sure Geoffrey will represent the family 
quite adequately.” 

On the following afternoon Eunice took a taxi to 
the address her mother had given her. The house 
was one of a row, and very typical of certain un- 
lovely districts of London. It was high and nar- 
row, with two front windows on each story except 
on the ground floor, where the place of one was oc- 
cupied by the front door. She rang the bell and dis- 
missed the cab, and then waited about five minutes 
before a slatternly servant opened the door. A 
smell of stale cooking pervaded the house, mingled 
with a slight odor of escaping gas. The stairs were 
narrow and the carpet was worn through in places. 
The very fact that her mother should be reduced to 
such sordid surroundings gave Eunice the precise 
measure of her misfortunes. And she was not the 
woman to make the best of things. The girl was 
strongly reminded of the miserable weeks she had 
spent in lodgings near Victoria Station with her 
parents as a child. 

It was evident, too, that Lady Mirton must be 
quite friendless, that she had no one who would take 
her in even for a few weeks. She had never made 
friends with women, alleging that their society bored 
her. She called them “cats” or “serpents” or 
“frumps,” and never tried to propitiate them. 
There had been, it is true, the constant relays of 
young men with whom she had flirted until the in- 
evitable estrangement supervened. But they had 
ceased after her second marriage. Sir Chandos was 
a domestic tyrant and permitted no relaxation of the 
kind. After his death she found herself completely 
alone and friendless. 

Eunice discovered her now unoccupied and lying 
on the sofa. The table was littered with a collection 


4i8 


EUNICE 


of miscellaneous articles, just as the one in those 
other lodgings had been. But prominent among the 
things to-day was a large, half-emptied brandy- 
bottle. There was a faint but disagreeable odor of 
spirits in the room. Eunice did not know why, but 
the sight of the bottle with the three stars glittering 
on its label seemed full of sinister import. 

Lady Mirton raised her head slowly. She looked 
a little sleepy. 

“So you’ve come, Eunice,” she said. “I never 
thought they’d let you.” 

Eunice had always remembered her mother as 
neat in person, well if showily dressed. Now she had 
completely gone to pieces. Her hair was disheveled; 
her dress, though obviously quite new, needed brush- 
ing. There was something more than ever repellent 
about her to-day as she lay there, a bulky, obese 
figure in those untidy surroundings. Eunice shrank 
from her. She had never quite realized what living 
with her mother would mean, what sacrifices of com- 
fort and orderliness it would necessarily entail. A 
strong revulsion of feeling came over her and her 
determination relaxed a little. She would go back 
to her father and tell him that he and Gilfrid were 
right. In contrast to the dreadful little scene before 
her the ordered beauty of Denscombe rose up be- 
fore her eyes with a passionate appeal. Everything 
was waiting for her there, as well as a love which she 
had been tempted to treat lightly and set aside. She 
could not throw it away. All her youth cried out 
to forbid the sacrifice. She suddenly became aware 
that her mother was speaking in a sharp, querulous 
tone. 

“Why don’t you sit down? Why do you stand 
there staring? I suppose you think the room’s un- 
tidy, but my maid left me to-day. I couldn’t keep 


EUNICE 


419 

her; besides, she was becoming a nuisance and 
wanted to be paid.” 

Eunice sat down near the window. It was closed, 
but it was the least stuffy place in the little room. 

“Well, what have you done? What do you mean 
to do?” 

“Is it really true that you wish me to come to 
live with you?” asked Eunice at last. 

“I don’t see how I’m to live alone. But of course 
it’s useless to expect Mr. Eliot to put off the wed- 
ding on my account.” 

“No,” said Eunice, “if I come to you it will mean 
I must break with him.” 

“Break off your engagement? Well, that would 
indeed be killing the goose with the golden eggs I” 
said Lady Mirton with a coarse laugh. 

“There is no other way,” said Eunice. 

“You could help me much more if you had a rich 
husband,” Lady Mirton reminded her. 

“No, you are mistaken. I shouldn’t be able to 
help you at all. Gilfrid says when we are married 
I am never to see you.” 

Lady Mirton’s intelligence was not particularly 
bright this afternoon, a fact for which the brandy 
was largely responsible. But she could not quite 
fail to grasp the meaning of her daughter’s words, 
and she believed that she had to deal with a weak 
little fool. If she persuaded Eunice to come to her 
she would not only separate her from Herbert Dam- 
pier — by which action Lady Mirton wished to in- 
flict a salutary punishment upon him — but she would 
also be the means of robbing his adored child of her 
happiness. 

“Of course, if you really have to choose between 
us I shall go to the wall as usual,” she said. 

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Eunice; “you see. 


420 


EUNICE 


it may be my duty to come to you. That’s what Fve 
got to find out.” 

“I never imagined you didn’t care about Mr. 
Eliot,” said Lady Mirton. “You meant to marry 
him for his money, then?” 

Eunice was silent. It is possible that Gilfrid and 
all that he stood for her had never seemed so dear 
to her as they did at that moment, when she was 
trying to strengthen her determination to make a 
sacrifice of them. 

“You are never likely to get such a chance as that 
again,” said her mother. 

“If I come to you,” said Eunice, “I think I could 
persuade papa to give me the same allowance he 
was going to if I married. He has made up his 
mind to leave Onslow Square and take a small flat. 
But with what you have, it would be enough to live 
on if we were very economical. We shall be poor, 
of course.” 

“I don’t see why you should make this sacrifice 
for me,” said Lady Mirton, “and I expect when it 
comes to the point Mr. Eliot will prefer to pension 
me ofl.” 

“I couldn’t let him do that,” said Eunice, with de- 
cision. “Besides, even then you would be alone.” 
She glanced involuntarily at the brandy-bottle. 

“You’re afraid I shall drink myself to death,” 
said Lady Mirton, with that harsh, grating laugh 
which jarred Eunice’s nerves so terribly. “Well, it’s 
more than probable. All the same, I’d far rather 
you married him. When you are once married you 
can insist upon his giving me the money. Then we 
should neither of us be the loser.” 

To Eunice her attitude was inconceivable, and it 
forced her to realize what it would mean to live in 
daily contact with such a mind. It would be de- 
grading, and in time perhaps it might little by little 


EUNICE 


421 


change her own fastidious outlook. She was, after 
all, this woman’s daughter. It was sad to think that 
any human being should so sink in the scale. All 
her surface refinement had been worn away; she had 
lost more than her honor. 

“I have already explained to you that that would 
be impossible for me,” said Eunice. 

“You are absurd,” said Lady Mirton; “you can 
know nothing of the world. Most families have re- 
lations that they pay to keep out of their sight. It 
is a very common compromise, and if this man is 
really in love with you he will look at it as I do. 
Oh, you needn’t be afraid I A good allowance paid 
regularly and he’ll never hear a word from me. You 
can tell him that I” 

Eunice rose restlessly. 

“We won’t discuss that,” she said in a final tone. 
“I must go now and in a few days I will tell you 
what has been settled.” 

“You’ll be a fool if you break off your engage- 
ment,” said Lady Mirton. 

“I must talk to papa and — Gilfrid,” said Eunice; 
“nothing can be arranged till I have seen them.” 
She came toward her mother. “You do want me?” 
she said. 

“Yes. I can’t live as I am with no one to do any- 
thing for me. You can see for yourself how wretch- 
edly uncomfortable it is here. And the landlady is 
a most impertinent woman.” 

“With what we have,” said Eunice, “we could 
take a cottage in the country.” 

“A whatf’ said Lady Mirton, aghast. 

“A cottage — in some quiet place. It’s all we 
should be able to afford. But we could manage that 
and make it quite comfortable and pretty,” said 
Eunice, hopefully. 

“I hate being buried alive,” said her mother; “it’s 


422 


EUNICE 


far nicer living in a town. You can’t think how 
bored I was at Daunton in the winter. I’d much 
rather live in London.” 

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly afford London,” said 
Eunice hastily; “it would be out of the question.” 

“We can settle that afterward. You know I’m 
not taking this scheme of yours in the least seriously. 
You’ve still got Mr. Eliot to reckon with. Are you 
really going now, Eunice ?” 

“Yes, but I shall write or come very soon.” 

“You mustn’t desert me, Eunice,” and now Lady 
Mirton began to whimper; “you’re all I’ve got in the 
world. You’re my only child. If they persuade you 
to give me up I shall be quite alone.” She began to 
cry weakly. “Give me a kiss, Eunice. What a cold- 
hearted girl you must be — ^you don’t seem to care 
for any one I” 

Eunice bent her head and kissed her on the fore- 
head. She was thankful a few minutes later to find 
herself outside in the street, with the light and air 
of an August evening pouring into her face. Cold- 
hearted? She had the feeling that her heart was 
broken — that it couldn’t hold any more pain. . . . 


CHAPTER XLIV 


ILFRID was back in London. He had called at 



Onslow Square on the afternoon of Eunice’s 
visit to her mother and had been disappointed not 
to see her. But he left word that he would return 
after dinner, about nine o’clock. Eunice received 
this message when she returned. They had not seen 
each other for several days. 

She was alone in the drawing-room when he came. 
They had had dinner rather earlier than usual, for 


EUNICE 


423 


Colonel Dampier also had an appointment that 
evening. She felt a little nervous, a little appre- 
hensive, about the approaching interview. She was 
not even quite sure of her own courage. 

“You got my message?” said Gilfrid. “I told 
them to say I should come.” 

“Yes, I expected you,” said Eunice. 

“We have hardly seen each other lately.” There 
was a note of reproach in his voice. “I suppose I 
mustn’t complain, but you did give up a whole day 
to the Parmeters, didn’t you? In another month 
let us hope we shall be always together.” 

Eunice was silent. She was afraid to speak, 
afraid to tell him of the dilemma in which she was 
placed. She felt that he would not make it easy 
for her. His allusion to the Parmeters had aston- 
ished her. She had no idea how jealous he was of 
that old influence. 

“I was going to ask you,” she said timidly, “if 
you would mind very much waiting — a few months.” 

“Waiting? What for?” 

“For our marriage to take place.” 

“What do you mean? Of course I should mind 
more than anything else in the world! What put 
such a capricious idea as that into your head?” His 
tone, half angry and half jocular, was by no means 
propitiatory. 

“It is on account of my mother,” said Eunice, with 
an effort. “She is passing through a very bad time 
and I don’t dare leave her alone. She wants my 
help and I feel that I ought to give it to her.” She 
raised her eyes, very dark and serious-looking, to his 
astonished, aggrieved face. 

“Do you mean you wish to go to live with your 
mother?” he asked in an incredulous voice. “From 
my very slight acquaintance with Lady Mirton it 
does not seem possible! But it is interesting to 


424 


EUNICE 


know that you can consider her claims before mine 
for even five minutes!” 

“She wants me very much,” said Eunice. “She 
is quite alone — she has no one to do anything for 
her.” 

“Your father will never allow it. He is a^much 
opposed to your having anything to do with her as 
I am. She is not at all a fit person for you to asso- 
ciate with!” he said almost with violence. 

“Yes, I am sorry to go against papa,” she ad- 
mitted. 

“And do I count for nothing?” he demanded. 

“You count for a great deal. But I must not 
think of my own happiness or comfort.” 

She thought of the stuffy little airless room; the 
odor of spirits ; the half-emptied brandy-bottle lend- 
ing an added demoralization to the scene; and the 
haggard, painted, querulous woman sitting there in 
the midst of that sordid environment demanding 
money to keep her quiet. 

“I feel it’s my duty,” she went on. “I can’t leave 
her in that desperate, desolate state. It wouldn’t 
be kind — or right.” 

“So you prefer to let her come between us? You 
wish to make her the excuse for postponing our mar- 
riage indefinitely? Do you suppose she’ll be less 
able to look after herself in six months’ — in a year’s 
— time ?” Gilfrid had turned very white ; he seemed 
to see Eunice slipping from him, beyond the reach 
of his love, of his care. And he loved her at that 
moment more passionately than ever before. Yet 
was it possible to believe still, in the face of this so 
monstrous determination of hers, that she had ever 
really cared for him at all? 

“I can not think of any other plan,” she said. 

“Why can’t we take a house somewhere for her 
and pay a companion to be with her? Won’t she 


EUNICE 


425 


be satisfied with anything less than this appalling 
sacrifice of us both? I’ll give you carte blanche 
to make all the arrangements — anything to please 
her.” 

It would have accorded perfectly with Lady Mir- 
ton’s own views on the subject, but she could not 
possibly tell him that. 

“It’s very kind of you, Gilfrid; but there are rea- 
sons why I am sure I ought to go to her, at least for 
a time.” 

He burst out angrily: “She’s no right to accept 
it. She has no right to anything you can offer her ! 
She has forfeited all right to be considered by you 
at all! Your father ought to prevent you from 
making such a hideous mess of your life. And your 
promise to me? What of that, Eunice? It is 
hardly more than six weeks ago since you made it ! 
Darling — ” he took her hand and his voic^ softened 
suddenly — “I can’t let you do it! You don’t know 
what it means — to join your life to hers — to go 
about the world as Lady Mirton’s daughter. Eunice, 
give up this mad idea. Let us be married as soon 
as possible. Let me go to see her and make some 
arrangement for her ” 

“Oh no, no, I couldn’t let you,” she said, aware 
how readily Lady Mirton would agree to any propo- 
sition that should secure her own comfortable inde- 
pendence. “I shouldn’t be happy about her — if she 
were quite alone.” 

He had a last card to play, but even now he hesi- 
tated to use it. 

“You could not bear such a life for a single day. 
Perhaps I know more about her than you do.” 

“What do you know?” she faltered. 

“I know, setting aside all other things, that she 
has a certain failing which makes it impossible for 
her to be a fitting companion for you.” 


EUNICE 


426 

Eunice’s heart sank. So it was true, this terrible 
thing which that afternoon she had dimly and reluc- 
tantly suspected. And with Lady Mirton it was per- 
haps no new departure, since Gilfrid was already 
aware of it. It was not only the temporary result 
of her grief and desolation; it was something that 
might even have ruined the peace of Daunton for 
years past. Gilfrid must have learned of it through 
Dicky Mirton. Eunice’s heart turned sick and cold 
within her as she realized that her mother was a 
prey to this degrading vice. 

Gilfrid’s mind had wandered off to other things; 
he was hardly aware of her silence that followed 
his own impetuous words. He was thinking it would 
have been bad enough to have had Lady Mirton as 
a mother-in-law, even while she had still been living 
at Daunton under the shelter of her husband’s name. 
But to have her living alone in mean fashion, dis- 
reputable and degraded, would be a thousand times 
worse. He told himself that in this fact lay the 
final proof, if any were needed, of his love for 
Eunice. It was only right that he should, however, 
insist upon his wife’s dissociating herself completely 
from her mother. It was the least he could ask, and 
surely she ought to be willing to comply. He had 
always meant to marry some one with a perfectly 
clean and honorable family record. And now to 
thwart all his schemes this deplorable figure of the 
vieille coquette had arisen, threatening to destroy not 
only their peace but their very marriage. 

“I am sorry,” Eunice said at last in a cold little 
voice that sounded faint and far-off, as if she were 
speaking in a dream. “But that seems to make it 
even more necessary that I should go to her. And if 
I am doing wrong — as you seem to think — I shall 
be the one to suffer.” 


EUNICE 


427 


“Do not let us discuss it any more,” he said. “I 
can’t give you up to her for even six months — no, 
not for six days! You mustn’t put me on one side 
for Lady Mirton, who has no claim on you at all. 
You can’t be allowed to make the sacrifice she is ask- 
ing of you.” 

“Then that means we shall have to say good-by 
to each other, Gilfrid. There is no other way 
out.” 

He was thunderstruck at her words. 

“No, no,” he said. “I’m not going to let you go. 
I shall keep you to your promise. You will thank 
me afterward. You’re not to trample on our love 
like this!” 

“Gilfrid, don’t make it so hard for me.” 

She had turned abruptly away from him, and he 
could hear the sound of her sobbing. 

“You mean by this that you have never loved 
me?” he said angrily; “you are making this the ex- 
cuse for breaking off our engagement?” 

They stood facing each other, and she shrank a 
little before the angry look in his eyes. His temper 
for the moment had mastered him. 

“You wish to end it?” he said, moving a step 
nearer to her. 

“If that is the only way in which I can go to my 
mother now, I must say yes.” 

There was a long pause. Gilfrid realized that 
all his entreaties had availed nothing. 

“I understand,” he said bitterly, “that you have 
ceased to care for me, if indeed you ever cared for 
me at all.” His flaming eyes swept the slight, 
shrinking form in front of him. He flung at her 
that ultimate reproach, which had risen to his lips 
and would not be gainsaid: “/ might have known 
that Lady Mirton^s daughter would not he true to 
her word/^ 


428 


EUNICE 


CHAPTER XLV 

W ITH the tears scalding and blistering her eyes, 
Eunice went up to her own room. She felt 
as if she had deliberately murdered love, the splen- 
did love full of the first ardor of youth, that Gilfrid 
had given her. She was certain that he had gone 
away forever. She had trampled on their love, as 
he had told her, killing it so that henceforward there 
could only be bitterness, perhaps hatred, between 
them. And she had been very happy. In spite of 
those transitory scruples of conscience her engage- 
ment had brought her nothing but an almost perfect 
happiness, shared by her father. Gilfrid saw her 
now as faithless and disloyal, the daughter of Lady 
Mirton and as false as her mother; he could never 
trust her again. Who, indeed, could ever trust her 
again? It was as Lady Mirton’s daughter that she 
would appear henceforth to the world, her lot bound 
up in that depraved, ignominious life that belonged 
to her mother. And thus, little by little, the measure 
of her own sacrifice became apparent to her. She 
would not in that hour think of Julian. He was a 
vague, shadowy figure standing afar off; he did not 
love her, though he kept the memory of her in his 
heart with a certain tenderness. He had never 
sought her out; perhaps she would never see him 
again. Even his old power of advising her, of see- 
ing clearly across her difficulties, had left him. She 
was no longer the wilful, passionate little girl he 
had loved with a brother’s tenderness. 

She was still sitting there when there was a light 
tap at the door and Colonel Dampier came into the 
room. She could see by his face that he knew. Per- 
haps he had deferred his engagement that evening 
to listen to Gilfrid’s pitiful story. He looked grave, 
a little stern. She rose and went toward him. 


EUNICE 


429 


‘‘My dear child,” he said anxiously; “surely Gil- 
frid is making a dreadful mistake. He tells me that 
you have broken off your engagement to him.” 

“Yes, it’s quite true, papa; it’s the only way that 
sets me free to go to my mother.” Her voice was 
quite cold and controlled; she might have been dis- 
cussing the affairs of a third person. 

“You must let me put matters right between you. 
I am sure you both care for each other very much. 
The poor boy seemed perfectly heartbroken. I met 
him in the hall just as 1 was going out. I persuaded 
him to tell me.” 

“You can’t do anything, papa. It is all quite over 
between us. I have settled to go to my mother. 
She needs me — if anything happened to her, I 
should feel responsible.” 

She felt then, more than ever before, her duty 
toward this soul who had sought help of her — an 
immortal soul that but for her help might seek its 
own destruction. She was looking at the matter 
with that old teaching of Julian’s in her heart. It 
seemed to her the only thing in the world, of im- 
mense and primary importance. Everything — her 
own happiness, her marriage, Gilfrid, her father, 
Julian — was slipping away from her into the shad- 
ows of the world she was leaving. In the future 
there would only be Lady Mirton. The dreadful 
desolation of it all seemed to approach her heart al- 
ready, chilling it. 

“This is folly, Eunice. You could never stay there 
a week! And then you will come back to find that 
you’ve forfeited all your happiness for a woman 
who isn’t worth the least part of it 1” His eyes were 
fixed upon her face. He was thinking how suddenly 
frail she looked, almost drooping, as if the scene 
with Gilfrid had weakened and exhausted her. She 
aroused his pity almost as much as his resentment. 


430 


EUNICE 


“Let me beg you, my darling child, to give up this 
mad notion. Don’t throw away the love you have 
won. It’s a precious gift, Eunice; it doesn’t come 
to us all, and to very few of us does it come more 
than once.” He had so pictured her a happy wife, 
perhaps a happy mother, and in all the world he 
felt he could not have found a son-in-law more dear 
to his heart than Gilfrid Eliot. 

“Your mother isn’t worth it — you’ll find that out 
when perhaps it’s too late.” 

“Papa, I must try. I’m sure that she needs me — 
that I can help her.” 

“She’ll only want you as long as her humor lasts. 
Then she’ll turn you away. Eunice, my dear, don’t 
do it, don’t do it!” 

He felt as Gilfrid had felt, utterly powerless be- 
fore this indomitable obstinacy of hers. Well, let 
her try it! She could always return home if the 
experiment failed, as it was bound to fail. It might 
be that that intimate bond between herself and Gil- 
frid would never be renewed. His hurt had gone 
too deep; love and pride were alike wounded; he 
felt keenly the humiliating injury she had imposed 
upon him. She could never perhaps repair that 
wrong. 

“You do not mean to go yet?” he said, staring at 
a half-opened trunk that stood on the floor and into 
which she had already placed some of her posses- 
sions. “You mustn’t do anything in a hurry.” 

“I am going to-morrow,” said Eunice. She put 
her arms round his neck. “Papa, you must forgive 
me. I must seem so false and hateful to both you 
and Gilfrid.” 

“Never hateful to me,” said the colonel, gathering 
her close to him. “Always my own little girl. My 
dear, quixotic, wrong-headed, wilful little girl.” 

He felt her tears falling on his face. So for the 


EUNICE 


431 


second time Lady Mirton had brought ruin upon his 
life, pitilessly withering and blighting all his fair 
and beautiful hopes. Once she had struck at him 
through his honor, now she struck through his love 
for his child. 

“You must come to see me whenever you can — 
whenever you like,” he told her. 

“Yes,” she answered, “but perhaps I shall ask 
you not to tell any one where I am. I think it would 
be best for a time to keep it quite secret.” 

He said gently: “That shall be as you wish, my 
dear.” 

Oh, he had planted and tended his vineyard, and 
built a wall about it and guarded it with assiduous 
care ; yet even so the enemy had broken in, trampling 
upon it, devastating it. . . . 

That was the last night she was destined to spend 
under his roof for many months to come. Even 
then he found it difficult to believe that there would 
be any permanence in the arrangement between 
mother and daughter. He still believed that Eunice 
would come hurrying home, unable to bear the posi- 
tion she had chosen for herself. And if what Gil- 
frid had told him were true, surely there was ac- 
tually danger in letting her go to this woman, who 
had shown her in the past so little kindness, so much 
cruel harshness. 


CHAPTER XLVI 

W HEN Julian Parmeter read in the rnorning 
paper that Eunice Dampier’s marriage to 
Gilfrid Eliot would not take place he knew that 
she must have chosen to go to her mother. Even 
while she was still wavering and he had remained 


432 


EUNICE 


dumb by her side, unable to counsel her, he had 
felt that this would be her choice. He did not write 
to her, for he knew that she would certainly pass 
through at first a time of very bitter unhappiness. 
In her own way she must certainly have loved Gil- 
frid; as his wife she would perhaps have been ex- 
tremely happy in the manner of numberless women 
who have missed the best without realizing it and 
who would certainly not exchange their lot for any 
other. 

He thought a great deal about Eunice in those 
first days of autumn. He let his imprisoned thoughts 
escape now to the joyous contemplation of her, re- 
pressing them no more, as he had so resolutely done 
when she was the promised wife of another man. 
He had soon made up his little quarrel with Geof- 
frey, who had murmured an apology for his too 
plain speaking, which Julian gladly accepted. It hurt 
him, as it had always done, to be at variance with 
his brother. 

All through the autumn he went on carefully and 
diligently with his work, and before Christmas had 
finished part of a new novel. He had left Oxford 
without taking his degree, which was a source of dis- 
appointment to his mother; but he intended to go in 
seriously for literary work, and wished for a greater 
freedom and leisure in which to accomplish this. Be- 
sides, it had now been settled that Geoffrey was to 
go with his regiment to India early in the year, and 
he did not wish to leave his mother quite alone. 
The prospect of this parting was a pain to them 
all. 

The first news of the Dampiers came — as was to 
be expected — through Geoffrey, who spent a few 
days in London after Christmas. He had not seen 
Colonel Dampier, but he had dined with the Eliots, 
and had heard through them that Eunice had van- 


EUNICE 


433 


ished, and that no one quite knew where she was. 
Her father had given up the house in Onslow Square 
and was living in a tiny flat in Westminster. When 
he came home Geoffrey repeated Lady Eliot’s words 
to his mother and Julian: “No one knows in the 
least where Eunice is, except that she’s with that 
dreadful mother of hers. But by all accounts it 
won’t be for long — she’ll drink herself to death one 
of these days.” 

It was the first that Mrs. Parmeter and Julian had 
heard of this aspect of the tragedy, and it caused 
Julian especially a sickening little thrill of horror 
to think that Eunice should be exposed to this added 
calamity. 

Geoffrey proceeded with a touch of indignation: 

“Colonel Dampier ought never to have allowed 
it! He should have* insisted upon her marrying 
Eliot. They were devoted to each other, and it 
was up to him to frustrate Lady Mirton’s vicious 
determination to get hold of her daughter.” 

Mrs. Parmeter felt vaguely guilty, remembering 
her own advice to Eunice. And after all it had not 
been of any use. Julian had shown no desire to 
step into the place left empty by Gilfrid. Yet she 
had been convinced of the flaw in that engagement; 
she was not prepared to accept Geoffrey’s declara- 
tion of their mutual devotion. There had been 
something wanting, and she had wished to save 
Eunice from a more disastrous and permanent un- 
happiness. 

“I suppose she felt that it was her duty,” she 
murmured. 

Geoffrey had seen Gilfrid, changed and bitter 
beyond belief. He had been told of Colonel Dam- 
pier’s forlorn, lonely aspect. And to him Eunice 
was doubly guilty. He felt an angry impatience 


434 


EUNICE 


with the woman who had not been able to discern 
between gold and dross. 

“And it was perhaps her duty,” said Julian sud- 
denly, raising his eyes and looking at Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey met the look and smiled ironically. 

“You still think she’s so perfect?” 

Julian did not answer. But in his thoughts — in 
his heart — what a fair and beautiful perfection was 
hers I 

“For if you do, I don’t!” said Geoffrey. “I ^ree 
with Lady Eliot that she is false and faithless. They 
hit the nail on the head when they said you couldn’t 
expect anything else from Lady Mirton’s daughter!” 

A white look of anger came into Julian’s face; 
for a moment his eyes flashed fire. But his self- 
control was an iron quality, trained and steeled 
through years of self-discipline. He only wondered 
a little at his brother’s fierce indignation. He was 
a friend of Gilfrid’s, but not a very intimate one. 
Since the engagement had been broken off he had 
stayed once or twice at Denscombe for the week- 
end, and had met Dicky Mirton there, a young man 
with whom he had not much in common but who 
had assured him of his joy that Gilfrid was no 
longer going to marry “that woman’s daughter.” 

Indeed, Gilfrid did not lack sympathizers who 
were ready to tell him, had he allowed it, that he 
was well out of the tangle. He could have read this 
dubious congratulation in many faces, but it only 
increased the savageness of his pain. It could not 
console him, for he still obstinately loved Eunice; 
but it did serve to strengthen those teasing little 
doubts which, from the first, prudence had whis- 
pered in his ear. That his love had always been able 
to surmount such sordid obstacles had assured him 
of its strength and vitality. But now that he knew 
people were saying, “like mother, like daughter,” 


EUNICE 


435 


he began to feel ashamed of something vehement 
and imprudent in that passionate love that would 
have swept all those obstacles aside. 

But Geoffrey’s words had made Julian suddenly 
anxious about Eunice. He seemed to visualize her 
present life, spent wholly, perhaps, in the task of 
trying to reclaim her mother from those final depths 
of degradation. He felt that she must be ill- 
equipped for such painful, harrowing work. Till 
then he had pictured her bringing a love and sun- 
shine into that unhappy life to which it must long 
have been a stranger. Now he saw the scene filled 
with tragic menace. 

So far he had taken no steps to see her, feeling 
that she would certainly later on write either to him 
or to his mother. Now it seemed imperative that 
he should make some move. He must know more 
of her. A new look of resolution came into his 
face. It had not occurred to him that Eunice might 
be in a position to need a man’s help. He forgave 
Geoffrey for his angry sarcasm, because after all 
he had brought this new knowledge to him. 

Geoffrey sailed for India early in the new year, 
and a few days after his departure Julian went to 
London to see Colonel Dampier. He said nothing 
to his mother, but she guessed that it was in connec- 
tion with Eunice that he had gone. 

Although he was now in his twenty-third year, 
Julian looked younger. He was of medium height, 
but his figure was so slight and boyish and his pale 
clean-shaven face so youthful that he looked barely 
twenty. He had none of the personal beauty of 
Geoffrey, but he had an interesting face and his eyes 
often arrested people’s attention. One saw a like- 
ness in him to both his parents, whereas Geoffrey 
did not resemble either of them. 

Julian found Colonel Dampier alone in his flat 


EUNICE 


436 


one wintry January evening. They had not met 
for so many years that he had to tell the colonel who 
he was. 

“And I’ve come to ask you for news of Eunice,” 
he said simply; “you see, we have heard nothing of 
her for so long. We hoped that she would write.” 

“She very seldom writes,” said Colonel Dam- 
pier, who since his daughter’s departure looked 
much older. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you a great 
deal about her. She used to come here sometimes 
in the early days, but now they have gone abroad.” 

“Abroad?” Julian was startled. He had not 
expected somehow to hear that she had left Eng- 
land. “Where is she?” he asked. 

“Ah, that’s just what I’m afraid I mustn’t tell 
you,” said Colonel Dampier. “She asked me to 
kei ible — a secret.” 



realize the measure of his 


own disappointment. She was abroad — she did not 
wish her whereabouts to be known — she had 
vanished to some unknown place whither perhaps 
he could never trace her. 

“You’re not anxious about her? You think she’s 
all right?” he asked. 

“She writes — when she does write — cheerfully 
enough. But she tells me very little. I gather, 
though, that she means to stick to it from some mis- 
taken sense of duty. God knows I’d give the world 
to have her back with me — I miss her more than 
it’s possible to say. If I knew she were happy I 
could bear it, but I know that her present life can 
only be a long martyrdom for her.” 

He had been secretly astonished to see Julian. 
If it had been Geoffrey . . . He had always sus- 
pected Geoffrey of being a little in love with Eunice. 
He shouldn’t have minded that except for the relig- 
ious difference, supposing that Eliot had not come 


EUNICE 


437 


forward. That had knocked a good many supposi- 
tions on the head. This slight, delicate-looking boy 
with the pale face and burning eyes wasn’t the man 
that Geonrey was. 

“You’re not living in London?” he asked. 

“No, I still live at Brighton with my mother.” 

“Got work there?” 

“Yes, my own work. I write.” 

“Ah, like your father,” said Colonel Dampier, 
who had something of the active man’s contempt 
for sedentary occupations. “But it’s an idle sort of 
life for a young man like yourself. Why didn’t 
you try the army like your brother?” 

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t have been of much use,” 
said Julian, smiling. “Geoffrey’s gone to India now 
— he sailed last week. My mother is glad to keep 
one of us with her.” He went on speaking, but all 
the time he was longing to hear more of Eunice. 
“Don’t you think,” he broke out suddenly, “that 
you might make an exception and tell me where 
Eunice is? I can’t believe she’d mind my knowing. 
We are such old friends, though we haven’t seen 
much of each other since we were children.” 

“I can ask her if you like, but candidly I believe 
she’d rather make no exceptions. You see, it’s a 
pretty tough job she’s undertaken; and I dare say 
she feels that the fewer who know about it the bet- 
ter. My only fear is that she may break down and 
never tell me. I’m not happy about her, Parmeter, 
and that’s the truth.” 

He wondered why Gilfrid had never come to him 
on a similar errand, with such a request on his lips. 
It would have been difficult-^nay, impossible — for 
him to refuse Gilfrid. There had been something 
a little ambiguous to him about his complete dis- 
appearance. Young men didn’t always take their 
dismissals so completely for granted. It had been a 


438 EUNICE 

disappointment to him that Gilfrid had never sought 
him out. 

Julian did not stay very long. He felt that his 
mission had been a failure. It was not an easy mat- 
ter to discover Eunice’s whereabouts, since she was 
obviously determined to remain hidden, even, as it 
would seem, from himself. She had evidently made 
no exception in his favor when she had requested 
her father to keep her address a secret. But there 
was still an odd strain of obstinacy in Julian, and 
it came into his mind that he would go and seek 
for her. In Italy, perhaps, in some great city where 
she could remain hidden. Living thus under the 
soiled aegis of Lady Mirton, she would shrink from 
people. Perhaps he might find her in Rome or 
Florence, where living was not dear and there was 
sunshine. 

Two days later he astonished Mrs. Parmeter by 
saying : 

“Mother, I wish you’d come to Italy this spring. 
Why shouldn’t we start quite soon?” 

“But darling Ju, what put such an idea into your 
head?” she asked. 

Julian laughed. 

“This cold, wet weather, for one thing. I should 
enjoy a little southern sunshine and so would you.” 

“But you said the other day you wouldn’t stir till 
your book was finished.” 

“Oh, my book can wait,” he assured her. 

“But won’t you really tell me why?” she said. 

“Ah, don’t ask me. I’ve got an ulterior reason, 
of course. But isn’t it better that you shouldn’t 
know?” 

“Something to do with Eunice,” was her reflec- 
tion, something that could never, of course, be ut- 
tered aloud. But always she was inclined to trace 
anything mysterious or inexplicable in his conduct 


EUNICE 


439 


to that source. She had learned to do that long 
ago, and it seemed to her almost wonderful that 
he should cling with so pathetic a lack of encourage- 
ment to his early, ineffaceable ideal. It was the re- 
sult of his poet’s nature, but surely never had love- 
affair thriven upon such meager sustenance. 

All he had told her of his interview with Colonel 
Dampier was that he hadn’t been able to give him 
Eunice’s address. She didn’t wish it to be known. 
Had he now discovered some clue that made him 
determine to undertake this sudden expedition? 
Did he mean to seek her? That pale, boyish, 
sphinx-like face gave her no answer to these 
questions. 

“Of course we will go to Italy,” she said briskly, 
“and perhaps a change of scene will be good for the 
book, too. I think sometimes you stay too much at 
home.” She had a firm faith in all experiences, 
agreeable or the reverse, being transmutable into 
“copy.” Julian would be able to “use” his journey, 
even if nothing else came of it. There was always 
for the writer this secondary consolation! 

She was more than ever surprised to find that he 
had made exact plans for the trip, settling everything 
except the actual date of their departure from 
Brighton. They were to go first to Florence, she 
discovered. Did he think the City of Flowers 
would be rich in clues? He had never seen it since 
he was a small boy, when they had spent a few days 
there on their way back from Rome, and even his 
excellent memory could only produce a hazy vision 
of the grouping of the ruby-colored Duomo with 
Giotto’s lily-tower standing in eternal loveliness be- 
side it. But he was apparently waiting for a letter 
before he could fix upon the date of their leaving 
England. It came — although she did not know it — 
about a week later, and was from Colonel Dampier, 


440 


EUNICE 


saying he was very sorry but Eunice refused to give 
him the desired permission to tell her whereabouts 
to Julian. It was a disappointment, but somehow 
he had expected it. In this hour of trial she did 
not want curious onlookers. There was something 
of shame mixed up in her desire for complete se- 
clusion even from old friends, even from himself. 

There was nothing to wait for and Mrs. Par- 
meter and Julian left England about the middle of 
January. They arrived a few days later in 
Florence, and Julian took a small furnished apart- 
ment in an old palace, high up and overlooking 
the Arno and full of sun. They met many friends 
among both residents and visitors, and Julian ap- 
peared in a new light and was quite sociable. He 
lunched and dined out with wonderful frequency, 
and, as far as his mother could see, had put all 
literary work aside. She was now secretly con- 
vinced that he had come abroad in search of Eu- 
nice, and was perpetually on the lookout for clues 
by which he might discover her. Hence his readi- 
ness to meet people, even strangers. They had been 
in Florence for two tranquil months when she re- 
ceived her “marching orders.” He came in one 
day with bright face and shining eyes and said : 

“Mother, shall you mind if we give this up and 
go on to Rome next week?” 

To tell the truth, she was disappointed. She 
loved Florence and she would have liked to linger 
there a little longer, to see the spring come once more 
to those scenes in all her lavish beauty. The soft 
brilliant green of the Val d’Arno, the red and yellow 
roses garlanding ancient walls and loggias, the 
honey-scented blossoms of wistaria, the pale clusters 
of Banksian roses, the gay anemones flaming on the 
hillside where the olive-trees twinkled in the sun . . . 
It seemed tantalizing to leave it in those first days of 


EUNICE 


441 


March, when its glories were beginning to show 
themselves in a thousand exquisite tentative ways. 

“But of course we will go next week,” she said, 
smiling at his eagerness. “I shall love to see Rome 
again.” 

Julian appeared quite satisfied, and they left 
Florence early one morning, arriving at Rome in the 
afternoon. Again she found he had planned every- 
thing with a thoughtful view to her comfort. A 
hotel would be best for them in Rome, he said, and 
he had taken rooms in one in the higher quarter 
near the Borghese Gardens. 

Even Mrs. Parmeter felt a certain degree of ex- 
citement. Julian would surely never have given up 
Florence and moved so suddenly to Rome unless he 
had been in possession of a very strong clue. Per- 
haps, indeed, he had certain knowledge. . . With her 
old power of reading his thoughts she saw clearly 
that to find Eunice was the objective toward which 
he was passionately struggling; all the moves of his 
present pilgrimage were directed to that end. He 
made her think of a young Crusader who has bound 
up some deep spiritual purpose with his quest. 

In all ways Rome gave abundantly to Julian. He 
had such happy memories of it that for the first 
few weeks he abandoned himself to sight-seeing as 
if to verify them all. More than ever the city 
seemed to him like some mighty palimpsest, upon 
which nearly all the great periods of history have 
written their imperishable record. He sat for hours 
on the Pincio, sometimes alone and sometimes with 
his mother, gazing across the clustered roofs, the 
creamy-white and honey-colored buildings, the 
towers and domes, toward the mighty dome of St. 
Peter’s drawn in delicate tones of mauve and silver 
grey against the strong blue of the spring sky. Or 


442 


EUNICE 


he would climb Monte Mario and look back upon 
the splendid city lying outspread below him, with 
the grey sea of the Campagna flowing, as it were, in 
waves to the feet of the distant mountains. 

There was hardly a corner of Rome that did not 
seem intensely and poignantly familiar to him, and it 
was all inseparably associated in his mind with the 
thought of Eunice. In the Borghese Gardens, 
where the Judas-trees were flaunting their brilliant 
purple boughs, and especially in the shady charming 
Giardino del Lago, he could almost see that fleet 
childish form running to and fro under the high 
avenue of branching ilex-trees, a patch of pallor in 
the gloom. The very scent of the spring flowers 
confirmed all his old memories. He knew exactly 
the spot where later on he would drink in the fra- 
grance of the blossoming acacias and the voluptuous, 
heavy odor of the magnolias. He could see him- 
self sitting apart with a book close to the lake with 
the little temple embowered in spring verdure at 
the far end. He could almost hear her crisp voice 
saying: “Who is that boy? He wasn’t here yes- 
terday,” and Geoffrey answering with childish lisp, 
“It’s my twin-brother, Julian.” He could visualize 
her so perfectly; her little face flushed with exercise, 
the shining eyes, the dark, thick tangle of almost 
black curls blowing back from her forehead; he could 
see her advancing toward his mother in the shadowy 
gloom of the old Roman palace holding up a bou- 
quet of spring flowers when it had seemed to his 
childish imagination that she resembled a figure of- 
fering sacrifices on an ancient Roman sarcophagus. 
Often even as a child he had made these classic com- 
parisons because of the sculpture with which his 
mind had been early saturated in Rome, and from 
a habit he had of comparing things that were often 
widely different in order to discover what points 


EUNICE 


443 


they had in common. Often he saw people momen- 
tarily poised as statues are poised, rather in an atti- 
tude of arrested movement than in one of absolute 
passivity. And often still when he looked at the 
wonderful grouping of an ancient marble frieze or 
panel it was with the secret wish to discern some 
figure that had a resemblance to Eunice Dampier. 

Now, when he saw the wonders of Rome once 
more, he found that although the years had blurred 
the remembrance of them for him, destroying per- 
haps their first sharp precision of outline and de- 
tail, they did not come to him in the least as novelties; 
they held a definite place, albeit dimmed and con- 
fused, in the storehouse of his memory. He thought 
if he ever had children of his own he would wish to 
give them the rich and varied experience of beauti- 
ful things and places which he had himself had in 
the years when memory is perhaps most retentive. 
It was something upon which one could build the 
later exact knowledge of art and beauty, just as 
one’s early faith was the foundation-stone of all 
one’s future and spiritual experiences. He felt that 
it was impossible to be too generous or too careful 
about those first formative influences, when the 
child’s mind receives impressions just as soft wax 
does or as a highly sensitized photographic plate. 
Children differed, as he and Geoffrey had done, and 
be believed that his brother remembered nothing of 
Rome except the mere fact that he had once lived 
there. But at least all should have an equal chance. 

When he said something of this to Mrs. Par- 
meter she was struck by the way he had built up his 
life, so to speak brick upon brick, its various stages 
linked together by the steady growth in spirituality 
that gave him so much detachment from a world 
whose beauties he loved. Had he chosen to be a 
monk in a strictly enclosed Order, that serene de- 


444 


EUNICE 


tachment of his would have served him well, and 
there, in constant contemplation within the pre- 
cincts of his cell, the spiritual side of him, always 
so strong and deep, would have seen a broad, rich 
development. But he had not chosen that way of 
beautiful, bitter perfection, although sometimes in 
his early manhood she had believed that he would. 
Now he was a man, seeking with a kind of selfless 
passion the woman he loved, fearing that she might 
be unhappy, that she might need the help for which 
she was too proud to ask, or even that she might be 
perilously placed. But Mrs. Parmeter did not ques- 
tion him on this point, and sometimes she wondered 
whether he realized and now took for granted that 
intuitive knowledge she had of what was passing in 
his mind. 

Rome clutched him spiritually, almost with vio- 
lence, reviving the old devout attitude, fanning, as 
it were, to passion that deep mysticism of his. He 
was out early at Mass on those cold spring morn- 
ings and often it was late when he returned for the 
first cup of coffee. It was Lent, and he frequently 
went on foot to the church where was that day’s 
Lenten station. Sometimes it would be in a distant 
basilica outside the old walls. But he would come 
back faintly flushed from the exercise and with a 
strange light in his eyes, as if the spiritual experience 
had been close and intimate and uplifting, with 
fruits of almost inconceivable joy. 


CHAPTER XLVII 

J ULIAN went early one morning to the Church of 
Santa Maria Maggiore, and as he entered the 
great Liberian basilica the pale shafts of sunshine 
touched with fragile illumination the subdued rich 


EUNICE 


445 


gold of the ancient mosaics. In those chill marble 
spaces flanked by the twin rows of “moonlight-col- 
ored” columns there was a faint, pervasive odor of 
incense. He saw the jewel-like marbles of the 
Borghese chapel, so rich in all its coloring and deco- 
ration. Something in the pallid aspect of the vast 
nave, in the delicate whiteness of the pillars that 
supported the gold-and-white ceiling, made him 
think of those legendary snows dedicated to Our 
Lady in remembrance of that ancient miracle. He 
went forward and entered the chapel of the Pre- 
sepio. In the far corner there was a girl kneeling 
with bowed head and hidden face. He knelt down 
not far from her, as there was a seat unoccupied. It 
was not till after the commencement of Mass and 
he was standing up for the Gospel that he turned his 
head and saw suddenly that it was Eunice. She did 
not see him; her eyes were fixed upon the priest. 
The blood rushed to his face and his heart gave a 
great throb, and a few minutes passed before he was 
able to regain his customary recollectedness. Habit 
was strong in him and triumphed now; he did not 
look at her again. But he was aware of her near- 
ness — not only physically but for the first time per- 
haps spiritually also, so that somewhere in the 
sealed background of his thoughts there was a great 
bar of light. . . 

When he went up to the altar-rail to receive holy 
communion he felt rather than saw that Eunice was 
kneeling not far from him. He had an extraor- 
dinary sense then of the nearness of his soul to her 
soul, a something that hitherto had always been 
wantir^ and which now flooded his heart with a new 
joy. Julian felt as if this moment were sanctifying 
both his love and his quest. That they should have 
been restored to each other now in answer to all his 
prayers and in this sacred spot and at this holiest 


446 


EUNICE 


moment of their Catholic life, seemed to show him 
that God had crowned the hope and purpose of his 
heart. He felt as if he were surrounded by an am- 
bient golden light that floated over himself and 
Eunice. Yet he knew afterward that no real dis- 
traction had made his mind swerve from his deep 
mystical preoccupation. He was as a man trans- 
ported and uplifted into some ultimate and inti- 
mate sanctuary, where the soul can rest in an im- 
measurable peace and from which all thoughts of 
earth are abruptly banished. 

He went back to his seat and knelt down, his face 
hidden in his hands. He made a resolve that he 
would not shorten by the fraction of a second the 
time he was in the habit of devoting to his thanks- 
giving. If during that time Eunice should rise and 
go away, he would understand that God had willed 
it to happen thus. He did not know whether she 
had seen him, or whether, having seen him, she had 
recognized him. He made this resolution as a prac- 
tical sign that he placed himself utterly under the 
discipline of the divine will. 

And yet, with what eloquence of thanksgiving did 
he pray that morning — a prayer rather affective 
than impetrative, full of a wordless gratitude, be- 
cause he knew now that during the months of their 
separation Eunice had become a Catholic. Perhaps 
this grace had been vouchsafed to her as a reward 
for her great sacrifice. But he knew that far back 
the seeds of it had been sown during that life of 
hers with them at Brighton. She had not been able 
when the time came to turn her back definitely upon 
those early formative influences. They had held her 
with slight but strong chains. 

A clock struck outside. He must be going. Al- 
ready it was getting late. But Eunice had not 
moved, she was still kneeling there, her face hidden 


EUNICE 


447 


in those pale folded hands, a devout, motionless 
figure whom he dared not disturb. He took out his 
rosary, and began to recite the five sorrowful mys- 
teries, because it was always easiest for him to medi- 
tate upon the Passion. The successive scenes were 
so imprinted upon his mind by a process of constant 
and detailed meditation that he sometimes felt as if 
he had seen them happening and that he evoked a 
memorized rather than an imagined picture. He 
had just finished and was kneeling down to say the 
Salve Regina when he felt a slight stir near him, and 
Eunice rose to her feet. She went away and he 
followed her more slowly. They were both outside 
on the steps when he came up to her. Their eyes 
met and he could not tell by any expression of sur- 
prise in her face whether she had been unaware all 
the time of his proximity. It seemed to him that 
they might have arranged a meeting here, in this 
place, at this hour. 

They passed down the steps in silence, going 
toward that abrupt hill that first climbs and then de- 
scends to climb once more to the Trinita dei Monti. 
It was a beautiful fresh morning, with something of 
mountain crispness in the rarefied air. The whole 
city looked as if it lay bathed in a cup of golden 
light filled to the brim and illuminating the pale 
houses and ancient palaces, the beautiful domes and 
towers, with an effect that was ethereal and almost 
magical. Julian did not speak. Eunice looked very 
grave; her expression was a little sad and anxious, 
as if she had a good deal to bear. He thought her 
of a surpassing beauty; and he knew that his heart 
could not hold any more love; as it was, he felt 
that it must almost break from the force of that 
love. 

All his impressions of ner as a child and as a girl 
were gathered up into one beautiful and harmonious 


448 


EUNICE 


whole, and the Eunice of his dreams was merged 
into this flesh-and-blood figure who stood beside him. 
He had no need to ask whether she loved him. It 
seemed borne in upon him with an almost fantastic 
energy of imagination that she must have been 
aware all the time of the prominent and ceaseless 
part she had played in his dreams, sleeping and wak- 
ing, so that in reality he had never acutely suffered 
from the long separation from her. Did she not 
guess how often she had come, tantalizingly elusive, 
fragile, wonderful in her beauty? 

“Why wouldn’t you let me know where you 
were?” he asked. Those were the only words he 
could think of, and yet it was not in the least what 
he wished or intended to say. 

“I couldn’t bear that any one should know, even 
you.” She looked at him. “Have you been long in 
Rome?” 

“This is April. We have been here for six 
weeks,” he said. 

“Six weeks,” she repeated. 

“And you? When did you come?” 

“In the autumn, as soon as I decided it was no use 
trying to live in England.” 

“I wonder that I have never seen you before.” 

“I never go anywhere. I leave my mother as lit- 
tle as possible.” 

He looked at her now with a tenderness that 
seemed to melt up and break for her the hardness, 
the difficulty, of her way. 

“And so you have become a Catholic,” he said 
quietly, and for the first time his voice was not quite 
steady. “Was that after you came to Rome?” 

“Yes, I was received at a convent. The nuns 
were very kind to me. They seemed surprised that 
I knew so much. But you used to teach me, and I 
found I had forgotten so little. I had prayed for 


EUNICE 


449 


some time past that if there was anything unselfish 
or worthy of reward in what I had done I might 
receive the gift of faith in return. I was received 
at Christmas — I made my first communion at Mid- 
night Mass.” 

“So we were together,” she heard him say almost 
more to himself than to her. He remembered how 
he had gone with his mother and Geoffrey to Mid- 
night Mass in the church at Brighton and how his 
prayers' for Eunice had been perhaps the most fer- 
vent he had ever offered for her. 

“Yes, I thought — I hoped — it might be so,” she 
said. 

Presently he said: “Where do you live? We 
must see each other again very soon.” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“I am here with my mother. Perhaps you would 
rather come to see us?” 

“No, I seldom go anywhere.” Her face was per- 
plexed. She had the feeling that there was no need 
for any secrecy or reserve between herself and 
Julian. Even the daily tragedy of her life could be 
unfolded before him without shame or humiliation. 
The old intimacy held them still with strong but in- 
visible bonds. She had no exact knowledge of his 
feeling for her, as yet he had given it no utterance, 
but everything in his voice and look assured her that 
it had undergone no change. 

“Then you would let me come?” he said hesitat- 
ingly. 

“Yes. You — ^you wouldn’t mind?” 

“No,” he answered. “I could only mind one 
thing — that you should shut me out.” 

“I can’t shut you out,” she said quietly. She had 
the old sense of being unutterably soothed by his 
presence, as if all jarring sounds and harsh voices 
were hushed; as if the world had become a beautiful. 


450 EUNICE 

smooth, silent place where nothing could hurt or 
terrify you. 

She gave him the address. He knew the street — 
it was not far from the church they had just left. 

“Perhaps one evening about six?” she said.^ 

“This evening,” he said; “do not let us wait be- 
yond this evening. I have so much to say to you.” 

And yet as he spoke he knew that all he had to 
say to her could be summed up in three words, the 
most wonderful words in the world. 

“I must go,” she said. 

“I will walk with you,” said Julian. He kept 
close to her side as they descended the steps. Even 
at that comparatively early hour the sun had real 
warmth in it. His mind that seemed so full of 
Eunice was yet able to register little impressions on 
their way to her abode; he remembered especially 
a dark-eyed boy driving one of the primitive wooden 
carts, full of wine-barrels, in from the Campagna, 
his face shadowed by a blue umbrella-like tent that 
was opened above his head. The cart was drawn by 
a mule so gaily caparisoned with a quantity of scar- 
let woolen tassels that he looked almost like an ani- 
mal decorated for some ancient sacrificial rite. Then 
a peach-tree shaking out soft pink and silver blos- 
soms against the blue spring sky caught his atten- 
tion; then an aged woman, tanned and incredibly 
wrinkled but rigidly upright, passed by carrying an 
enormous and heavy basket on her head. Outside a 
cafe a group of men were sitting drinking their early 
coffee and munching great slices of bread. He could 
hear the sustained animation of their talk, amiably, 
vociferously argumentative. A boy ran by, bare- 
legged and head uncovered, selling the morning 
newspapers. A fountain flung up showers of silver 
spray that glistened brilliantly like diamonds. There 
was a warm scent of burning wood mingling with 


EUNICE 


451 


the odor of flowers. The air, invigorating as new 
wine, poured in from the sea and the mountains. It 
made Julian feel strangely energetic and alive. 

Eunice stopped before an open door that led into 
a long passage, whose far end was lost in darkness. 

“This is the house,” she said, “and we are on 
the third floor. It is rather a climb. There is no 
name, but you will know it, Julian, because there 
is a green door.” 

She touched his hand lightly and then slipped 
away into the arched passage that seemed to lead 
into a mysterious world of cool dim shadows. He 
felt as if, somehow, it had all happened before, ex- 
actly like that, and as if he had always known she 
would take leave of him with just those words: 
“Tow will know it, Julian, because there is a green 
doorJ* 

He walked home on air. . . . 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


T first he did not tell his mother. Even to tell 



any one so dear as she was would, he felt, in- 
evitably rob his romance of something of its fresh 
bloom. This evening, perhaps, before he started 
forth on his pilgrimage to the Esquiline hill, he 
would reveal it. 

After he had left Eunice he went back reluctantly 
to the hotel, had his morning coffee in the little sa- 
lotto, and then sallied forth again with his mother 
to look at some pictures. She was not able to do 
any fatiguing sight-seeing, for as she grew older she 
was less robust in health, but often she liked Julian 
to suggest some easy plan that would agreeably 
occupy an hour or two in the morning. On their 


452 


EUNICE 


way home she would stop at a confectioner’s to buy 
cakes for their tea, Julian standing by and helping 
her to choose them. Then they returned to the 
hotel for lunch and afterward she went to her room 
to rest a little while Julian sat writing in the salotto. 
In the afternoon they ve^ frequently went out to 
tea, for they had many friends in Rome ; but to-day 
they had no engagement of the kind. They had tea 
together and afterward Julian said: 

“I am going out. I have an engagement at six.” 

His heart beat as he said the words. All of a 
sudden he wanted her to know, as if she must bless 
his errand. But she did not say, “Where are you 
going?” She was never curious about his engage- 
ments ; she wanted him to feel as free is if she were 
not there. \Inquisitive, worrying mothers made their 
children’s lives a burden. 

“You don’t ask me where I’m going,” he said. 

Without his telling her she knew from the mo- 
ment he said those words. 

“Dear Julian, I am so glad,” she said. 

He stooped to kiss her, and felt how wonderful 
was the sympathy between them and with what deli- 
cacy she had kept it alive. 

“You must pray for me — for us,” said Julian 
softly, and then he went out of the room. 

It was a dark spring evening, windy, with hurry- 
ing clouds that looked like eager pilgrims traveling 
rapidly toward some splendid goal. A few drops of 
chilly rain were falling, but Julian felt only the 
young vigor of spring in wind and rain. He walked 
quickly down the hill past the church of the Cap- 
puccini to the Piazza Barberini, where the huge 
bulky form of Bernini’s Triton was soused by the 
ceaseless spray of the fountain. The wind was so 
strong that it blew the spray across the piazza, dark- 
ening the cobblestones with its moisture. He turned 


EUNICE 


453 


to the left and climbed up the steep street of the 
Quattro Fontane, and when he reached the summit 
of the hill he could see in the rapidly gathering 
gloom the twin towers and domes of Santa Maria 
Maggiore on the opposite hill. He went so quickly 
that it was not very long before he found himself 
standing in the arched passage that this morning 
had swallowed up Eunice from his sight. He hur- 
ried up the stairs and was almost breathless by the 
time he reached the green door. The landing was 
illuminated by a globe of feeble electric light, a mere 
thread of orange wire. He rang the bell and it 
was Eunice herself who opened the door. She was 
looking very pale, almost exhausted. He grasped 
her hand and felt that it was very cold, like that 
of a person who had been sitting still for a long 
time. She trod softly as she led the way down a 
tiny narrow passage, and he instinctively followed 
her example, so that they made very little sound. 

“Mamma is asleep,” she said, as they stood al- 
most in darkness beside a closed door. “She is not 
very well to-day ” She gave Julian an appeal- 

ing look, as if imploring him not to seek the cause 
of Lady Mirton’s illness. 

They went into a small salotto, A wood fire was 
burning in an open stove, and gave a certain air of 
comfort to the room, which was shabbily and 
meagerly furnished, and evidently served both as 
dining-room and sitting-room. A cupboard and a 
chest of drawers occupied the available space against 
the walls. There was a square table in the middle 
of the room upon which were books and papers. A 
sofa was drawn up near the fire, and there were one 
or two high chairs of antique pattern covered with 
faded red damask. Eunice’s books, arranged on a 
couple of shelves, gave the place a certain home- 
like, occupied appearance. 


454 


EUNICE 


She went across the room and quietly closed a 
door communicating with another room beyond. 

“Will you sit here?” she said, and pointed to a 
chair near the fire. 

She sat on the sofa and the firelight illuminated 
her face so that it looked luminously pale against the 
darkness of her hair, which she wore very plainly, 
its thick folds clinging close to her head. It gave 
her a distinguished individual look at a time when 
most women wore their hair arranged in an exag- 
gerated Pompadour fashion. 

Julian bent over and touched her hand. 

“Dear Eunice, I have only one thing to say to 
you,” he said. “I can tell you now because you are 
free. I love you.” 

She was very still and at first she did not look up, 
but he felt that she was being swayed by some deep 
and secret emotion. For years he had known that 
he should come to her with those words on his lips 
or else that he would never utter them to living 
woman. And now here, high up in this old Roman 
house, he was saying them to her. 

“Do you love me, Eunice? Will you marry me?” 

His heart seemed to stop beating while he waited 
for her reply. 

She said at last: “You know I can’t possibly 
marry while mamma is alive.” 

“No, I suppose not,” he said. 

“My first duty is to her.” 

“Couldn’t you let me share that duty?” he asked. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Julian,” she 
said. 

He was startled at the look, almost of terror, that 
had come into her eyes. She looked like a badly 
frightened child. 

“But isn’t that ... all the more reason why you 
should have my help?” he said. 


EUNICE 


455 


“I am not going to sacrifice you,” she said. 

“You haven’t told me yet that you love me,” he 
reminded her. 

“But of course — you must know — ” she said. 
“I’ve never really loved any one but you.” 

He got off his chair and came and knelt by her 
side so that his head was almost on a level with hers. 
He drew her close to him and his lips touched hers. 
They had not kissed each other since they were chil- 
dren. But they had the feeling now that they had 
never been separated. 

She thought of Gilfrid’s beautiful, tormenting 
presence that always, even when she was happiest 
with him, had made her unconsciously suffer. She 
had always known that if she married him she would 
have to make great sacrifice of certain very precious 
things, though all the world would have laughed at 
the idea. Now she was enfolded in a peace so great 
it was like a visible, tangible thing. They were per- 
fectly happy. She had known that he was coming 
to tell her that he loved her, and even if they could 
not be married for years and years they would still 
love each other to the end. It was wonderful to be 
loved by Julian, and even the commonplace little 
room became rich and holy with love. 

“You ought to have come back to me long ago,” 
she said at last. 

For in that case there would have been no mis- 
takes, no hurried, reckless acceptance of the “half- 
gods.” 

“I had so little to offer you. I felt it would be 
wrong of me to take advantage of that old childish 
friendship until you had had a greater experience of 
life.” 

“And if I had married in the meantime? I so 
nearly married.” 


EUNICE 


456 

“I didn’t realize until that day you came to 
Brighton that you weren’t happy,” he told her. 

“You were going to stand aside?” she said. 

“Believe me, Eunice, I wanted your happiness 
more than my own. It has always been like that 
with me. If you remember anything you must re- 
member that.” 

Silence deepened after that in the little room. It 
was wonderful to sit there contemplating each other 
and their new-found happiness ; they felt no need of 
words. The firelight played on both their faces and 
showed Julian’s curiously set with deep burning 
eyes. 

Suddenly a sound from the next room disturbed 
them. It was as if something heavy had fallen on 
the floor. Eunice sprang up and ran toward the 
door but, before she could reach it, it was opened 
from the other side and a figure lurched unsteadily 
into the room. 

Julian had not seen Lady Mirton for many years, 
not indeed since the time when she was Mrs. Her- 
bert Dampier, and he was certain that he should 
not have recognized her now if he had met her in 
the street. She had grown very stout and ungainly 
in figure ; her face was heavy and coarsened and dis- 
colored, and the eyes — those haunting, grey, unquiet 
eyes — seemed to have dwindled in size, so that they 
peered cunningly from the mass of flesh. She was 
very untidy, wearing a loose woolen wrapper that 
exaggerated the bulkiness of her form, and her dyed 
hair was disheveled. The moral degringolade had 
been accompanied, as is so often the case, by a 
physical one. 

“Why, Eunice, who have you got here?” she cried 
in a loud, thick voice. “And why are you sitting in 
the dark?” 

Eunice switched on the electric light. 


EUNICE 


457 


“Mamma, it’s Julian Parmeter,” she said. She 
turned to Julian, who had advanced, holding out his 
hand to Lady Mirton, and whispered: “Oh, won’t 
you go away? You see — how it is ” 

“I am staying in Rome with my mother,” said 
Julian, dropping Lady Mirton’s hand; “it has been 
a great pleasure to see Eunice again. But now I 
am afraid it is time for me to go.” 

Lady Mirton sank down heavily upon the sofa 
and closed her eyes drowsily. 

“Come again,” she muttered thickly; “come when- 
ever you like. Do Eunice good. I’m sure she must 
miss Mr. Eliot, though she doesn’t say so.” 

Julian moved toward the door and Eunice fol- 
lowed him into the passage. 

“I am sorry,” she whispered; “I thought she was 
asleep. I left her asleep. She was all right then — 
she must have hidden it — I don’t know how she 
gets it.” 

He was able to realize the hideous, degrading 
little tragedy that shadowed her young life. He 
longed to take her away into an innocent, untainted 
atmosphere. 

“Oh, my darling,” he said in a tone of anguish, 
putting out his arms and drawing her to him. 

“You mustn’t pity me,” she said, smiling, and 
throwing back her head; “no one must pity me now.” 

“You must let me take you away or you must let 
me share this duty with you,” he said. “Let me 
make it mine also, Eunice.” 

“Yours?” ... 

“I mean we could be married, and then I should 
have the right to help you. To help you, if possible, 
to save her.” 

“I must go back to her. Good-by, dear Julian.” 

She put up her face and he kissed her. 

“Dear, dear Eunice,” he said. 


EUNICE 


45 B 

He went down the long twilit flights of stone 
steps and through the arched passage back into the 
street. The many voices of Rome were murmuring 
about him. The sky was quite clear now, the rain 
had ceased, there was a bright moon and some stars 
were shining. 

“She must never be left alone like that,” he said 
to himself; “it isn’t safe for her.” 

When he had gone, Eunice persuaded her mother 
to go back to bed. Although she did not want to 
be disturbed, preferring to sleep where she was on 
the sofa, she at last agreed, and returned to her own 
room, assisted by Eunice, who, having no maid, 
waited on her hand and foot. Lady Mirton was 
already asleep when she left her, and she had appar- 
ently forgotten all about Julian’s coming, since dur- 
ing the process of undressing she never once men- 
tioned him. 

Later Eunice went back to her seat by the fire. 
It had died down and she put on some fresh logs and 
then blew them into thin tongues of flame with a 
small pair of bellows, so that the room became cosy 
and warmed again. She was thinking of Julian and 
wishing that she had not been obliged to send him 
away quite so soon. She could not help contrasting 
his attitude with Gilfrid’s. She had seen Gilfrid’s 
face change when he saw Lady Mirton for the first 
time, with a sudden change that frightened her. His 
expression of horror seemed to reveal what was 
passing in his mind: “What have I done? I have 
been carried away by love. I ought never to have 
asked this woman’s daughter to marry me.” Eunice 
had been dreadfully conscious of what was passing in 
his mind. But when her mother came into the room 
this evening she had known that she could look with- 
out fear at Julian’s face. This moment would be 
for him — as it had been for Gilfrid — the supreme 


EUNICE 


459 


test of his avowed devotion, yet she had had no fear 
of its effect upon him, knowing that it could only 
consolidate and strengthen a sentiment that could 
never lessen while life was in him. All his thoughts 
had been for her. He had only begged for a share 
in the bitter burden, almost humbly, as if he were 
a suppliant for some favor at her hands. He had 
never urged her to leave this self-imposed task to 
others or to surrender its heavy obligations. Yet 
he had seen a far worse side of Lady Mirton than 
Gilfrid had ever done. He had seen her heavy and 
sodden with drink, scarcely able to articulate, barely 
conscious of what was going on around her. If 
anything could have driven him away or diminished 
that lifelong devotion of his, it must surely have 
been this horrible and degrading little episode. But 
he had thought only of her, of how he could help 
her; he had even without her telling him detected 
that secret, most intimate hope of hers, that of even- 
tually saving and reclaiming her mother’s soul. 

Since she had become a Catholic, Eunice had felt 
no doubts as to her duty to her mother. It was a 
twofold one, touching spiritual as well as temporal 
needs. And in a sense she was learning to bear the 
trial supernaturally, as a cross to be taken up and 
renewed daily. But of late her courage had failed 
a little. Lady Mirton had grown worse, and she 
was sometimes more than Eunice had been able to 
manage alone, although on their slender income it 
was impossible to pay for an attendant to help her. 
Would it be possible to acquiesce in Julian’s sugges- 
tion? Would it be right to sacrifice him — his youth 
— his peace? . . . 

As she sat there, staring into the fire, it seemed 
to her that she could still feel his presence, his near- 
ness. 


460 


EUNICE 

CHAPTER XLIX 


J ULIAN and his mother dined together and after- 
ward they went upstairs to the little yellow and 
white salotto, whose windows overlooked Rome. 
Because the night was chilly a wood fire had been 
lighted, and gave forth a pleasant, aromatic odor. 
The room looked gay this evening, for Mrs. Par- 
meter had arranged some large bunches of pink car- 
nations in the Tuscan bowls. 

She sat down and began to look at the English 
papers which had arrived that day. Julian stood 
with his back to the fire. Quite suddenly he said : 

“I am going to marry Eunice.” 

She thought he had said the words less to inform 
her of the news than as an endeavor to assure him- 
self of this astonishing truth. 

“Are you? I am so glad, dear Julian. She has 
always seemed so much my own daughter.” Mrs. 
Parmeter spoke in a very quiet voice. She was so 
glad for his sake, and yet she did not know how to 
tell him of her joy. 

“We must be married very soon,” said Julian. 
“As soon as it is possible after Easter.” 

“Yes,” she said, “there is nothing to wait for. 
You can afford to marry. And you have known 
each other — cared for each other — so long.” 

“She has become a Catholic,” said Julian, sud- 
denly remembering that his mother was unaware of 
the fact. 

Then he began to speak of Lady Mirton and of 
the episode of the afternoon. 

“But will she leave her mother?” asked Mrs. 
Parmeter, beginning to realize that after all there 
might be difficulties. 

“Oh, no, I should never ask her to do that. But 
I want to be allowed to take my share — to help her. 


EUNICE 461 

It’s too heavy a burden for her alone, though she’s 
wonderfully courageous.” 

“You two would make your home with Lady Mir- 
ton?” 

“Yes,” he said, “it’s the only thing to do. If I 
can get Eunice to consent.” 

He relapsed into silence. Eunice’s bright and 
brave look haunted him. There was in her work 
the very essence of sacrifice, undertaken for a 
definite spiritual end. Why had Gilfrid let her go? 
His old dull enmity toward Eliot stirred anew in 
his heart. Had he never known what a beautiful 
prize he had won? Had he been blind to its worth, 
dazzled only by that physical exterior? And what 
love had there been on her side? Some day she 
would perhaps explain that ambiguous episode to 
him. 

He was there standing before the green door and 
waiting for admittance at the same hour on the fol- 
lowing day. Eunice told him that Lady Mirton 
was in bed, she had not yet recovered from the ef- 
fects of yesterday. It was not likely that this even- 
ing they would be interrupted. Julian began eagerly 
to speak of their marriage. It must take place im- 
mediately after Low Sunday, which would give them 
plenty of time to procure all the necessary documents 
from England. In the meantime he would look 
about for an apartment; he had heard of one in an 
old palace with lovely views over the city and the Al- 
ban hills. There was no need for them to go away 
from Rome if Eunice preferred to live there. 

“I think I would rather stay here for the present,” 
she said. “It’s easier to give myself wholly to the 
task of looking after her. In England I have papa 
to think of, too, and that makes everything more 
complicated. I have written to him — I hope he will 
be pleased.” 


462 


EUNICE 


“I must write to him, too,” said Julian. He had 
a feeling that Colonel Dampier would have pre- 
ferred Geoffrey as a son-in-law; he had more sym- 
pathy with the active than with the contemplative 
nature. 

His eagerness to have the right to help her 
touched her afresh. He was so utterly free from 
the egoism that had characterized Gilfrid, and she 
could see that he was hardly thinking of himself 
at all; he made her feel that she was the one thing 
that mattered. He was not to be frightened away; 
more than that, he could enter fully into the spirit 
of her sacrifice and see that it was necessary and in- 
evitable. He would never think her action quixotic ; 
to him it was simply the thing she had to do. One 
couldn’t leave Lady Mirton to drag out her miser- 
able and degraded existence alone and never lift a 
finger to help her, comforting oneself with the as- 
surance that sooner or later she would drink herself 
to death. Eunice had been given a suretyship, and 
in her willing and zealous compliance her spiritual 
development had been rapid, as indeed it must al- 
ways be when the divine will is implicitly obeyed 
along the path of self-sacrifice and self-immolation. 
That mystical co-operation had given a new depth to 
her character, had helped her even to bear the fierce 
physical strain. 

“I think we had better tell mamma as soon as pos- 
sible,” said Eunice. “I want her to know. But I 
think you will have to tell her.” 

Julian agreed to this. He thought Lady Mirton 
could have no valid objection to the plan; it would 
be all to her advantage as far as exterior things 
were concerned. She would have more comforts, 
and she would have a maid as well as Eunice to 
attend to her. 

The following day when he called he found Lady 


EUNICE 463 

Mirton sitting with her daughter, and after a few 
minutes Eunice withdrew, saying: 

“Julian has something to tell you, mamma.” 

When Eunice had gone out of the room he said 
without further preliminary: 

“Eunice wishes me to tell you that we are engaged 
to be married.” 

Lady Mirton looked at him with her cunning little 
grey eyes. 

“She’s always getting engaged,” she said; “it’s 
very unsettling.” 

Julian winced. “We intend to be married very 
soon,” he said, “as soon after Easter as possible. 
In fact, in about three weeks’ time.” 

“Does that mean she’s going to leave me?” 

Her voice was eager, as if she hoped for a speedy 
emancipation from the tyrannical surveillance of her 
daughter. And young Parmeter was a rich man, 
perhaps he would be more complaisant than Gilfrid 
Eliot had been and give her a proper allowance to 
live apart from them. 

“Oh, no,” said Julian, “we shall all live together, 
I hope.” 

Her face fell. 

“I can manage very well alone,” she said, “and 
you two will be far happier by yourselves without 
me. Eunice gets on my nerves. She means well, 
but she’s too dictatorial. You’d far better take her 
back to England. If I have enough to live on that’s 
all I care about. She wouldn’t let Gilfrid Eliot ar- 
range things like that, but you’re an old friend. I 
am sure if you would suggest it that she would 
agree I” 

“But I am not going to suggesr it,” said Julian; 
“that isn’t our idea at all. And I should never con- 
sent to it even if Eunice did propose it. She has her 
duty to you.” His tone was haughty and final. 


464 


EUNICE 


“But I don’t want her with me at all,” whimpered 
Lady Mirton; “we aren’t at all congenial to each 
other. We never were, even when she was a little 
girl. She’s — too like her father!” she ended 
viciously. 

“Well, I am afraid we shall have to ask you to 
make your home with us,” said Julian, “even if the 
plan isn’t quite to your liking.” 

“I’m little better than a prisoner here. I can’t 
even go out without a — a keeper. Eunice doesn’t 
allow me any liberty at all. She’s worse than Chan- 
dos ever was — he used to go away sometimes.” 

Julian was silent for a moment, then said coldly: 

“Your health is not good. Lady Mirton. You 
need constant care.” 

“I suppose Eunice has been telling you lies about 
me 1” she said angrily. 

“No, I am judging simply by what I’ve seen.” 

“It’s a great pity she didn’t marry Gilfrid Eliot. 
Such a rich man and an only son and all that lovely 
property. I told her she’d never have such a chance 
again. And she was devoted to him, though I sup- 
pose she has told you she wasn’t!” 

He was annoyed with himself because her intem- 
perate words had power to hurt him. 

“It would have been a brilliant marriage for her. 
And she’s an expensive person ” 

“In any case, she’s going to marry me,” said 
Julian, patiently. 

“Soon?” 

“I told you. In about three weeks.” 

“I think you are very foolish,” said Lady Mirton. 
Suddenly she began to cry. “It’ll be dreadful with 
two of you against me.” 

“You must not think that. We shall not be 
against you. On the contrary, we shall do all we 
can to make you happy and comfortable.” 


EUNICE 


465 

“But you’ll uphold Eunice In all her tyranny. 
You don’t know how unkind she Is. I suppose she 
thinks I wasn’t kind to her when she was a child and 
now she’s paying me back.” 

“You must never think that,” he said 'sternly. 
“Eunice has been devoting herself all these past 
months to the care of you. And of course I shall 
uphold her when she Is In the right.” 

“You have upset me very much. Will you go 
Into the next room, please, and bring me some 
brandy?” 

“I shall certainly do nothing of the kind,” said 
Julian. 

His tone of authority had its effect upon her. 
She gave him a quick, cunning look. 

“I suppose Eunice has been telling you that I 
drink? She’s always slandered and traduced me. 
She’s been a wicked daughter to me.” 

“I’m afraid it isn’t a secret,” said Julian quietly. 

“Chandos’s sons started the report. It’s a vile 
slander, and Eunice knows it is I” She began to cry 
again. “I’m a miserable woman, and I haven’t a 
friend in the world. Even my own daughter is 
against me.” 

“Lady MIrton,” said Julian, “I have something 
to say to you. Will you listen?” He stood up in 
front of her and something in his tone made her 
raise her eyes to his face. He looked stern and pur- 
poseful, and there was something quietly resolute in 
his expression that kept her silent and attentive. 

“I am going to help Eunice to save you,” he said. 
“So far you have resisted all attempts to help you.” 

“To save me — to help me? What do you mean? 
You talk like the Salvation Army!” 

But his words produced within her a sense of dis- 
comfort, of nervous apprehension. 

“Do you never think of the time when you must 


466 


EUNICE 


die? We Catholics pray every day that the hour of 
death may find us ready, with burning lamps in our 
hands , said Julian. 

“I wish you wouldn’t come here and talk about 
death. I’m not at all likely to die. I’m only 
forty-live — that’s quite young. You could never call 
forty-five old!” 

“No age is exempt,” said Julian. “I am only ask- 
ing you to think sometimes of that hour — that day.” 

“Why, what difference can it make?” 

“After death we are told there is the judgment,” 
said Julian. 

“Oh, I don’t believe in hell and all that nonsense I” 

He came a little nearer. 

“Won’t you help us?” he said. “Won’t you try 
to give up this degrading habit? Believe me, it 
would not be difficult if you would only pray for 
strength. And the reward — the blessed freedom 
from the chains of it!” His eyes were shining. 

Lady Mirton stirred restlessly beneath the gaze 
of those burning eyes. “Please go away and send 
Eunice to me,” she said querulously. “I am tired — 
I can’t talk to you any more.” She leaned back in 
the chair and closed her eyes. “You’re worse than 
that priest who came to see Eunice the other day. 
He said the same kind of things. You go and make 
love to Eunice and don’t worry about my soul !” 

Julian left the room and went in search of Eunice. 


CHAPTER L 

T here was a sudden spell of bitterly cold weather 
in April just before Easter, and one day, on 
calling at their apartment, Julian was told by the 
Italian woman who opened the door to him that 
both Lady Mirton and her daughter were suffering 


EUNICE 


467 

from influenza. She further assured him that he 
could not see either of them, and, greatly disturbed, 
he returned to the hotel. He was afraid to ask his 
mother to come to their assistance, fearing infection 
for her, but Mrs. Parmeter refused to listen to his 
arguments, and putting on her hat and coat prepared 
to sally forth at once. 

“But I don’t think you ought to go,” said Julian, 
as they walked quickly down the Via Veneto. 

“My dear. I’m not made of sugar. And if you 
will insist upon giving me a charming daughter like 
Eunice I” 

His face cleared. “But I don’t want to have you 
ill on my hands,” he said. 

They reached the house and were admitted. 
Julian waited in the little salotto while his mother 
went to Eunice’s room, which was small and dark 
and quite sunless, with a dreary outlook over a court- 
yard. She found her lying flushed and feverish on 
the bed in a darkened room. Her eyes were swollen 
and painful and she could scarcely lift her head from 
the pillow. 

“Do please go to mamma, Mrs. Parmeter. I 
feel so worried about her — this woman doesn’t know 
anything and she’s sure to give her all she asks for.” 

Half nervously Mrs. Parmeter went back to the 
salotto and after saying a word to Julian she opened 
the door into Lady Milton’s room. She found her 
sitting up in bed wearing a soiled flannel wrapper of 
indeterminate hue. Her dyed hair was all awry 
and contributed in a singular manner to her demoral- 
ized aspect. 

The Italian woman who had come in to cook for 
them since their illness had naturally not ventured to 
disobey Lady Mirton when sent out for a bottle of 
brandy, and now in the absence of her daughter she 
was enjoying its contents unrestrictedly. She was 


468 


EUNICE 


very excited, welcomed Mrs. Parmeter at first with 
a boisterous cordiality, and then began to weep over 
Eunice’s malady. 

When Mrs. rarmeter saw the hopeless confusion 
of the room her heart sank a little. It was very 
close and stuffy, for the window had been kept shut 
all day, and a sickly odor of stale spirits permeated 
the atmosphere. She thought of Julian, and for the 
first time perhaps she realized how strong his love 
for Eunice must be, since he was resolved to marry 
her and share with her the task of combating this 
sordid, tragic vice. 

Lady Mirton very soon sank into a stupor that 
rapidly became a heavy slumber; her stertorous 
breathing was the only sound that was audible now 
in the little room. Mrs. Parmeter quietly set about 
restoring order, though this was no easy matter. 
She opened the window to allow the fresh, cold, 
spring air to pour into the room. In a little while 
her task was done and she returned to Eunice. 

“I think you had better let me send a nun to nurse 
you both,” she said; “you can’t manage alone, and 
your mother needs great care.” 

“Oh, is she bad again?” said Eunice. 

“Yes, but she’s asleep now and quite quiet. I 
think she will slefep for some time.” 

Eunice broke down and began to cry. She was 
very weak, and all her high courage had for the 
moment left her. 

“You really must have help,” said Mrs. Par- 
meter. 

“Yes, but won’t it cost a great deal? I have so 
little left.” 

“Oh, I’ll see to that. It shan’t cost you anything 
at all. I must take care of you now for Julian’s 
sake.” 


EUNICE 


469 


Julian was sent in search of a nun and about two 
hours later he came back to say that one would 
arrive very soon. Shortly afterward a nun belong- 
ing to an English nursing Order appeared, a young 
woman with a pale round face and very quiet grey 
eyes, a compressed mouth, and that controlled ex- 
pression which professed Religious so often acquire. 

Lady Mirton was raving all that night. She was 
like a demented woman. Neither Mrs. Parmeter 
nor Julian dared leave the house, but kept an all- 
night vigil in the little salotto, not knowing from 
moment to moment whether their help would be re- 
quired. Early in the morning Julian went out to 
fetch the doctor and brought back some coffee for 
them all from a neighboring restaurant. It was not 
till the doctor had examined Lady Mirton that they 
even suspected that there was any danger. Surely 
she must often have weathered such storms before. 
But he told them that pneumonia had set in, and in 
her case there could be very little hope of recovery. 

The day wore on. Sometimes Lady Mirton was 
delirious, torturing her hearers with her cries. Mrs. 
Parmeter was thankful that Eunice was still too ill 
to be able to leave her bed. But late in the after- 
noon a period of quiet intervened, and Lady Mirton 
fell into a profound sleep. She had been lying like 
that for some hours when she suddenly opened her 
eyes and said: 

“Is Julian Parmeter there? Tell him to come.” 

Julian was sitting in the salotto. He had been 
spending those long hours of waiting in intermittent 
but fervent prayer. He was obliged to remain close 
at hand in case anything was needed. His mother 
went in and out of the two bedrooms; she was tire- 
less in her ministrations. 

She came now to fetch Julian. 

“She is asking for you,” she said. 


470 


EUNICE 


As in a dream he went into Lady Mirton’s room, 
now swept and garnished and restored to perfect 
order. What could she have to say to him? He 
approached the bed. 

“I am here, Lady Mirton,” he said gently. 

She made a gesture of dismissal and the nun left 
the room. Julian came a little nearer. 

“You wish to speak to me?” he said in a clear 
gentle voice. 

“You were right the other day,” she said in a 
hoarse tone. “I’m going to die.” 

“Perhaps you’ll get better,” he said quietly, lay- 
ing his hand on hers ; “perhaps God will spare you.” 

“To be a burden?” she said. “I’m only a burden. 
I’ve made a fearful mess of things. What do you 
suppose happens to people like me?” She raised 
restless, unquiet eyes to his face, and scrutinized him 
searchingly. “I asked that nun just now. She 
wanted to send for a priest. She thought, I suppose, 
that I was a Catholic too. I told her I wasn’t one. 
What could a priest do for me now?” 

“If you were a Catholic,” he sakl, “he would hear 
your confession — give you absolution — and then 
perhaps you would receive the last sacraments.” 

“And what would be the use of that?” she asked 
almost in derision. But her eyes — as he came al- 
most reluctantly to realize — were full of fear. 

“I could not pretend to measure the use,” he said. 
It was with an effort now he forced himself to speak. 
“Lady Mirton — you know what it says. God does 
not wish for the death of a sinner, and we are all 
sinners in His sight. He calls us all to Him through 
His Son — through His holy Church. He gives us 
all the means — not once, but a thousand times — to 
seek His pardon, to respond, to co-operate. If you 
will let me fetch a priest now he will tell you all this 
far better than I can.” 


EUNICE 


471 

“I am afraid — I am afraid,” murmured the dying 
woman. 

Julian slipped away and sent the nun back to her. 
Then he went out and hurriedly fetched Father An- 
thony, a Franciscan friar whom he knew slightly. 
Julian brought him back in a cab, this elderly man 
with a grey, austere face and penetrating eyes. He 
took him without delay into the sick-room. 

“Lady Mirton, I have brought Father Anthony to 
see you.” 

She opened her eyes. 

“I’m a coward. Julian’s frightened me. I used 
never to be afraid of death. It’s absurd to think 
of dying when I’m only forty-five I” 

*^Pax huic domuiP Father Anthony’s voice struck 
across the silence that followed her words. Julian 
answered: ^^Et omnibus habitantihus in eaP 

He went into the little sitting-room and found 
himself alone there. He knelt down and began to 
pray, his face hidden in his hands. So much de- 
pended on the next half hour — the eternal destiny, 
perhaps, of an immortal soul. Julian had a very 
special devotion to the dying; always from his boy- 
hood he had daily prayed for the purification in the 
Precious Blood of all souls who were that day to 
die. And it was never too late, thank God, to turn 
to Him for pardon. One could make a dying ap- 
peal, as the good thief Ditmas did upon the cross, 
with a heart full of faith and sorrow and love, know- 
ing that it was never too late to seek the succor of 
those outstretched, everlasting, welcoming Arms. . . . 

He knew that Lady Mirton was a woman who 
had sinned very deeply, and until now perhaps she 
had never known a second’s real contrition. She 
had abandoned husband and child, she had been 
sinking more deeply every year into habits that led 
to the degradation of both soul and body. She had 


472 


EUNICE 


been selfish, deceitful, violent; cruel to husband and 
child. . . . Now the end was rapidly approaching; 
she was intuitively aware that death was not far off, 
and the thought had produced within her a sudden 
terror. Would that terror lead her now to repent- 
ance — to contrition? 

It was for this that Julian Parmeter prayed. . . . 

Looking back he seemed to see the divine plan in 
all the common little things of life, and especially 
regulating all that concerned himself and Eunice. 
She was to come to them as a child, by some curious 
chance caprice of that woman who now lay dying 
in the next room, and she was to learn while still 
very young her first lessons in Catholic faith and 
practice. And though only a tiny seed had been 
sown, and although it had long lain in darkness and 
unfruitfulness, it had in the end matured and grown 
up into a living plant. They had given her things 
during those years at Brighton that she could not 
quite forget in all that busy, brilliant London life 
of hers that had so nearly ended for her in a mar- 
riage of perilous ambition. For she had never loved 
Gilfrid, as Julian could see now, in spite of that tor- 
menting personal attraction they had had for each 
other. Julian found it hard sometimes to forgive 
Gilfrid the part he had played and his implacable 
attitude toward Lady Mirton. He might have 
hurt Eunice so much ; it wasn’t his fault that he had 
failed to hurt her at all. But the episode had no 
doubt sharply stimulated her to a review of her own 
life, its duties, its obligations, its spiritual needs. At 
least once in every lifetime the soul by God’s grace 
sees itself clearly as in a mirror, in its stark actual 
relation to the eternal truth. And Eunice had been 
wonderful — as he saw now — in her instant response, 
her submission, even to the last ounce 'of self-sac- 
rifice that had been demanded of her. Her youth — 


EUNICE 


473 


the natural pleasures and joys of youth — a marriage 
that had promised so well and brilliantly — all these 
things had been poured out as libations. And, given 
her early training, it was natural that this spiritual 
renascence of hers should lead her — precipitately as 
it must have seemed to many — to the doors of the 
Catholic Church. That was where the training of 
her childhood could still profoundly influence her. 
And, because a conversion is seldom permitted to be 
solitary and sterile, she was going to accomplish, in 
some wonderful, unexplained way and acting as a 
poor little human instrument, the ultimate conver- 
sion of Lady Mirton. Julian saw it all as a com- 
pleted pattern, inevitable and harmonious. A weak, 
erring soul, that had been a complete failure in all 
its natural and human relations, was turning now 
with feeble, uncertain gesture toward the throne of 
grace. It was coming with fear and trembling. Not 
with the immense, illimitable love of the saints, who 
at last approached a goal sought with lifelong de- 
votion. Lady Mirton was tortured by the fear that 
scourges to repentance. It was only in the very 
face of death that she seemed to become aware of 
the heavy burden of sin, and of the awful prospect 
of bearing that burden unshriven into a future un- 
known, eternal world. Hers was the cry of the 
drownii^ amid the rush of dark icy waters. . . . 

But Eunice’s work could not fail. He tried to 
assure himself of this. Her beautiful self-sacrifice, 
with its long months of obscure, valiant immolation, 
its conscious rejection of all pleasant paths that she 
might undertake a hard and bitter task, could not 
have been made in vain. It couldn’t be that she 
had ultimately failed . . . God always gave royally 
of spiritual , things . . . 

The purple dusk crept swiftly over Rome. A 
star or two peeped out in the high darkening sky. 


474 


EUNICE 


And suddenly he was aroused by Father Anthony 
opening the door and coming into the room. His 
grey, austere face was singularly pallid in the 
gloom. 

“Can you fetch Miss Dampier? Her mother is 
asking for her.” 

Julian went in search of his mother. 

“She is asking for Eunice. Do you think it would 
be safe for her to come?” 

“I am sure she will want to come,” said Mrs. 
Parmeter. 

Julian returned to the salotto. Father Anthony 
was still standing there. He went up to him. 

“Miss Dampier is coming,” he said; “you know 
she has been ill herself. She has not yet left her 
room.” He waited a moment. “I want to tell you,” 
he went on, “that we are engaged to be married. 
We have known each other since we were children.” 

“I am glad to hear she is going to marry a Cath- 
olic,” said the priest. “I have heard a good deal 
about her from some nuns, and I know she has lived 
through very difficult days here.” 

Julian assented. “But I suppose it will soon be 
over. The doctor does not think Lady Mirton can 
live very long.” 

The door opened and Eunice came into the room. 
She was very pale and still showed the effects of her 
illness. 

“I have received your mother into the Church,” 
said Father Anthony simply. “She wishes to see 
you. I am going away now. When I return I shall 
anoint her and give her the last sacraments. Will 
you go to her? Her mind is perfectly clear.” 

He was more accustomed than Julian was to the 
strange and moving spectacle of a death-bed conver- 
sion. Such a thing, when it came, strong like a 
primal force of nature, was almost always in his 


EUNICE 


475 

experience the answer to long prayer, the prayer 
perhaps of some very devout person. Like a deluge 
the floods of grace poured into the soul, tmening up 
dark ways to receive light everlasting. One could 
almost see the poor, weak, erring soul brought in 
all its weakness and sinfulness into sudden and splen- 
did communion with things divine. The priest’s own 
faith was perfectly simple; his whole life was dedi- 
cated to his ecclesiastical work, and it was this qual- 
ity in him that perhaps made him seem even to 
strangers so completely detached. For him there 
were no adequate spiritual remedies except those 
offered by the Catholic Church, of which he was a 
most loyal and zealous son. There were the sacra- 
ments duly appointed that held all the means of sal- 
vation for suffering, struggling humanity. He was 
aware that thousands denied their efficacy, mocked 
at them, derided them. And perhaps no incident 
provoked so much sceptical ridicule as an eleventh- 
hour repentance and conversion. But he lived in a 
Catholic country, his time was spent almost exclu- 
sively among his co-religionists, and the scepticism 
and derision of non-Catholics or anti-clericals af- 
fected him scarcely at all. They that commit sin and 
iniquity are enemies to their own soul. And it was 
his task so often to come and help to win back to 
its glorious share in the Redemption the soul that 
was approaching the abyss of everlasting darkness. 
For no figure among all the men of flesh and blood 
who moved about him was one half so real to Father 
Anthony as the figure of the Man-God who had ac- 
complished the Redemption nearly two thousand 
years ago upon the cross of Calvary. People were 
thus less bodies to him than souls — souls to be 
guided and directed, sometimes into paths of sur- 
prising mystical holiness — souls to be won back and 
renewed in the sharp waters of penance — souls to be 


476 


EUNICE 


saved, snatched even as a brand from the burn- 
ing. . . . 

Eunice crept into her mother’s room. She saw 
her lying there changed in appearance, exhausted, 
the grey shadows of approaching death upon her 
face. But she was calm and quite conscious, and 
clasped a crucifix in her hands. The girl bent down 
and kissed her. 

“Dear Eunice — I am going to die. But I’m not 
afraid now. And you will be happy with Julian.” 

“I’m glad — so very glad — that you have become 
a Catholic. It is what Julian and I have been pray- 
ing for.” 

A faint surprise was visible upon that immobile 
face. 

“I saw that Julian cared for my soul,” she mur- 
mured. “He said he wanted to save me. Are you 
sure — it’s so easy as this? I have gone through all 
my life scarcely thinking of — Our Blessed Lord at 
all — not caring whether I had offended Him or not. 
And now at the last — just because I’m afraid — I 
turn to Him — and ask for forgiveness. Can He 
forgive me, Eunice? After all, it was you I sinned 
against almost more than any one.” 

Eunice bent down and whispered: “You have had 
absolution — you have on the wedding-garment. 
You mustn’t be afraid any more. It’s enough to turn 
to Him with one moment’s thought of love and con- 
trition, even if we are not able to say any words.” 

Something in this speech seemed once more to re- 
assure Lady Mirton. For some little time she lay 
there in silence. When she next opened her eyes 
she said: 

“You’ll go back to England? Perhaps you will 
be married there. You mustn’t put it off on account 
of mourning. I shouldn’t like that. You’ve been 
very good to me, Eunice dear; and I’m afraid I 


EUNICE 


477 

wasn’t always very kind. Still, it’s coming to an 
end, and I think I am glad.” 

Presently Eunice rose and fetched Mrs. Parmeter 
and Julian. They remained there, not speaking, un- 
til Father Anthony returned. Lady Mirton was 
barely conscious when she received the last sacra- 
ments ; she seemed scarcely aware of what was going 
on. She sank at last into a quiet slumber while 
Eunice sat motionless by her side and Father An- 
thony’s voice, reciting the prayers for the dying, 
filled the little room. 

About midnight Lady Mirton died. . . . 


THE END 


PRIMTEO BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK 


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1 25 

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0 50 
0 40 

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1 25 
1 25 
1 25 
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OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. Spalding. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. Mannix. 

OUR LADY’S LUTENIST. Bearne. 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 

PAULINE ARCHER. Sadlier. 

PERCY WYNN. Finn. 

PERIL OF DIONYSIO, THE. Mannix. 

PETRONILLA, AND OTHER STORIES. Donnelly. 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey. 

PILGRIM FROM ICELAND. Carnot. 

PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Waggamam. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Waggaman. 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clementia. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spalding. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bonesteel. 

RIDINGDAXE FLOWER SHOW. Bearne. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. Bearne. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus. 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. 

SEA-GULLS’ ROCK. Sandeau. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. Nixon-Roulet. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus. 

SHEER PLUCK. Bearne. 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. Spalding. 

SHIPMATES'. Waggaman. 

STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. Waggaman. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spalding. 

SUMMER AT WOODVILLE, A. Sadliee. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. 

TAMING OF POLLY, THE. Dorsey. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn. 

THREE LITTLE GIRLS, AND ESPECIALLY ONE. Taggart. 
TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 

TOM LOSELY: BOY. Copus. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. 

TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Waggaman. 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUNTAIN. Taggart. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clementia. 

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. Waggaman. 

VIOLIN MAKER, THE. Adapted by Sara Trainer Smith. 
WAYWARD WINIFRED. Sadlier. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. Ta'ggart. 

WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. Bearne. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel. 



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FATHER LASANCE^S PRAYER-BOOKS 

MY PRAYER-BOOK. Imitation leather, red edges, $125, and in 
finer bindings. 

THE YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE. Imitation leather, red edges, 
$1.00, and In finer bindings. 

THE CATHOLIC GIRL’S GUIDE. Imitation leather, red edges, 
$1.25, and in finer bindings. 

THE NEW MISSAL FOR EVERY DAY. Imitation leather, red 
edges, $1.50, and in finer bindings. 

THE SUNDAY MISSAL. Imitation leather, red edges, $1.00, 
and in finer bindings. 

THE PRISONER OF LOVE. Imitation leather, red edges, $125, 
and in finer bindings. 

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